


Baked

by AsbestosMouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Baking, Cakes at dawn, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, I'm borrowing the tasks from there, Lemon Cakes, M/M, OMG there is a tag for GBBO fusion fics that is mad as hell, Paul Hollywood!Sandor, Sandor has a filthy mouth, Series 7 GBBO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 87,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7934077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renowned chef Sandor Clegane is 'the mean judge' on <em>The Great Westerosi Bake Off</em>. He hates soggy bottoms, flaccid gingerbread housing, doughy bread, and doesn't the nation know it? Sansa Stark is an amateur cake lover who is just thrilled to be taking part - it's all so exciting to be thrust into the giddy competition with eleven other hopefuls! </p><p>Things do not go according to plan; as everyone knows, lemon drizzle cakes can be most contentious.</p><p>Will Yara's innuendo finally be too much? Will Olenna's machinations raise her grandson to glory? Will Ramsay kill everyone with a sharpened spatula? Is Cersei really that drunk all the damned time?  Can Podrick's adorableness break Twitter? Who will be crowned King or Queen of the Tent? Let's bake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Week 1: Drizzle Cakes, Jaffa Cakes, and Mirror Cakes

**Author's Note:**

> It was suggested that it might be a nice idea to write a _GBBO/GoT_ crossover. I went with it. Thank you for your awesome suggestion!
> 
> Time jumps around a bit within the chapters, between the date of filming and the date of air. Why? Because Twitter reactions make me happy. 
> 
> The challenges are taken from the present series of _GBBO_. Some lines might be gainfully borrowed, because they are amazing - okay, maybe just Mel asking Candice where orange juice comes from. I totally stole that one.

* * *

  
  


Nothing fazes Beric.

 

Sixteen hour days while filming? Walk in the park. Stars of the show having a melt down over biscuits being the wrong shade of brown - not burned, just not perfectly golden but just as tasty when Dondarrion manages to get his hands on them - and sobbing all over the baking tent? Fine. Olenna demanding additional support in the manner of a very strapping personal assistant who makes her gin and tonic, and has been known to get on his hands and knees and massage her geriatric feet between takes? Weird, but he goes with it.

 

He’s put on a stone and a half in weight since he started directing the  _ Great Westerosi Bake Off _ . All those cakes, and puddings, and sweet little tarts filled with creme patissiere and strawberries. Icing. Gingerbread houses. Croquembouche. Sugar work. It isn’t as if Beric has a sweet tooth. However, when food is there, in front of him, for what seems to be a quarter of his year for the last eight years, of course he’ll indulge.

 

“Might want a corset for that.” Yara grins, bitchily eyeing his softer stomach, eyes glittering behind her glasses. She’s short, and lean, and prefers wearing clothes that come from the men’s section of wardrobe. Having met her family, and witnessing the car crash that is the Greyjoys is an experience in itself, he understands why she is the way she is. Spiky and angular, and really bloody butch.

 

“Some men like their men more cuddly.” Margaery is a sweetheart. Nepotism got her the presenting gig because, hey, thanks for that Olenna for thrusting your granddaughter into the production, but she’s actually really very good. Ambitious as hells, and aware of her impact on and off the screen, sure, but if you understand what Margaery is all about, then it’s fine. Her and Yara bounce off each other quite well, and enjoy flirting even more.

 

Margaery’s like that with everyone. Film crew, presenters (apart from Clegane, obviously), competitors. Most of the bakers leave the show slightly in love with Miss Tyrell.

 

“I shouldn’t eat so much cake.” Yara never gets to him. No one does. He is zen. He is meditation. He is relaxation and supernatural patience with everything and everyone. “I used to be bloody fit, but how can I resist? The poor bakers look so sad when you try and explain that you’re on a diet, and I do hate disappointing them.”

 

“Also you’re a fat bastard.”

 

“There is that. Have you read over the personal information for everyone? Have you done the introductions? Have you put them all at their ease?”

 

Margaery smiles her crooked little smile that is in parts innocent and utterly devastatingly naughty, before reciting the names, ages, and occupations of every baker. Her memory for these things is excellent; Olenna drills her to ensure the perfect performance during every single take, after all. She isn’t as overtly sexual as Yara, who could set a barn on fire when she smoulders into camera and is absolutely genius when it comes to innuendo, but she is more professional.

 

“Tell me you’ve not slept with any of them yet, Margie? Usually it takes until episode four for you to be shagging one of them.”

 

“Of course I haven’t, Yara. What do you take me for?”

 

“A bit of a slut.”

 

They laugh, because that is how they are. Beric is sure that they’ve had some sort of affair over the past seven series of  _ GWBO _ , but doesn’t like to pry. Or he does. He loves gossip. He just doesn’t want Yara going Ironborn on his arse. Not that she could take him, but really, it doesn’t look good in the press.

 

The scent of roses fills the tent as Olenna enters, as regal and fragrant as any steel-eyed pensioner with a grip of iron and the heart of a tyrant can be. To everyone watching she is a kindly, slightly saucy older woman with startling eyes and a genius for baked goods that the nation has followed for years. She is the person who single-handedly introduced the cookbook that every kitchen in Westeros uses. If an authority is needed on cooking, one consults Olenna Tyrell’s recipes.

 

To everyone else she is a meglomaniac who is trying to game the system so her doe-eyed grandson who she has finally managed to get into the competition will win; such is the ambition of the Tyrell family. Willas wasn’t her first choice. No, Loras is TV bait from his glorious hair and strong jawline to the slightly camp wit and ability to flirt with everything that isn’t nailed down - including Beric, who declined the advances politely as his type tends towards the less pretty and the more, well, strange as his friends say - but they ended up with the quieter Tyrell who can actually bake.

 

Which, given this is a competition where cooking is needed, could prove quite useful.

 

“Sandor will be along soon,” Olenna murmurs. “Beric, be a dear and fetch me a gin and tonic?”

 

* * *

 

Clegane hates make up.

 

Hates it.

 

Varys crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow. This happens every year.

 

“You need to wear it.”

 

“I fucking hate fucking wearing the cunting bastard shit.”

 

“I know, darling, but think of the viewers. They tune in every Wednesday at 8pm to see adorable bakers making terrible mistakes and hopefully setting fire to the kitchen. They do not tune in to see your scars glowing like ‘90s rave at them, do they?”

 

Varys is the one person with big enough balls to talk to Clegane in that way. He is a mithril-willed man, dedicated to the survival and growth of the show he so lovingly produces. If that means bullying a man with hideous facial injuries into having them covered to some extent, then he’s willing to sell his soul to the Goddess.

 

“Piss off.”

 

“You’re wanted on set in ten minutes, Sandor. Please remember that somewhere you are actually a consummate professional with a heavily publicised line of kitchen goods and bakeware that we are pimping for you every episode? Play along with Daddy Varys, and you’ll make all of the money you’ve ever wanted. Be a bad boy, and I will be perfectly willing to remove every scrap of your existence from this show and draft in Hot Pie.”

 

Sandor bristles. “He’s a charlatan. Fucking fat wanker.”

 

“He’s gorgeous, adorable, dreamy, makes me chocolate eclairs, and lets me eat them in bed. Thin edge, Sandor. Very thin edge. If your behaviour continues, we will have to get rid of you.”

 

He hates Varys. Respects the great big poof because he is damned good at his job. Everything that happens on  _ GWBO _ is his plan. He stands above them all like some guardian angel and keeps everything running smoothly. The man’s idea before Sandor was recruited for the first series involved Hot Pie and Olenna, but the channel decided they were far too nice, demanding someone with more edge, more cruelty. More like that black-clad dickhead over on the rival TV channel that judges singing competitions.

 

“Next time, you cunt, get Beric to ask.” It’s never as bad when Beric asks. The director is as battered as Clegane.

 

“Darling, you are wonderful. I do adore you, I really do. Get your face done, then go and be horrid to those poor quailing bakists. I’ve noted the ones that might cry for you, so be extra mean about the consistency of their produce and we’ll have television gold. I need tears, Sandor. I need tension, and drama, and long glowering looks as you intimidate them to wobbly jelly-like messes.”

 

“What we got first?” 

 

“Drizzle cake.”

 

* * *

“Bring me up to speed.”

 

“Sandor-”

 

“I don’t read fucking notes, I just make it up as I go along.”

 

Beric shakes his head.

 

“How much do you want to know about them?”

 

Before them the contestants mill, gasping and chattering and squealing with excitement. Most of them do, anyway. A few don’t fit in with the ‘we are a big happy family’ part of  _ GWBO _ , but that makes excellent viewing. The lone wolves of the competition, who are loved and loathed in equal measure. They produce as much media fuss as the ones who the nation embraces. Varys always makes sure he has a few of those to spice up the programme; the producer thrives on drama. Complete drama llama.

 

“Which ones will possibly win?”

 

“Olenna is heavily invested in her grandson, so be harsher on him if you think she’s being too soft. I want this competition to be fair, not Olenna’s pet project to produce the next Tyrell baker for the family business.” He indicates a slim man with high cheekbones and a vaguely alarmed expression, leaning upon a walking stick. “He’s cute, shy, and disabled, so it looks good if he does win. Women over thirty will love him, apparently.”

 

“Fucking hell, can’t we just let someone who hasn’t got a bastard fucking sob story win for once? Who else?”

 

“Walda’s a member of the Women’s Institute, so technically she is flawless. She’ll be Star Baker a few times, but Varys says there’s not enough sparkle. She’s really nice. Really desperate to feed people. Uh.” He looks at his notes, reminding himself. 

 

“What about the punk bloke?” He’s unusual.

 

“...I think he files his teeth.” They stare at the short leather clad man who wears a band shirt dating to before he was probably born. “In his application he said that he once stabbed someone for eating his battenburg before it was properly cooled and marzipanned.”

 

“Can I piss him off to see what happens?”

 

“It’d make Varys happy, so whatever you prefer. I think Sansa’s got a chance.”

 

“Which one’s she?”

 

“Redhead in the ‘50s dress.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

Beric reaches over, closes Sandor’s hanging jaw with a finger.

 

* * *

  
  
Sansa is. Shit. Sansa is fucking beautiful. 

 

She looks up from under long eyelashes, a tiny smear of batter across her cheek, and smiles.

 

“What’re you making today, Sansa?” Thankfully Olenna asks the question, because Sandor, this close to what is perfection, is unable to make any sort of viable sound.

 

“I’m making a lemon drizzle cake, but with a twist. There’s honey and ginger cordial in the drizzle, so it’ll be sweet and warming and with a little tartness to bring the sugar back down. Oh! And lemon curd, there’s lemon curd in there as well. I made it at home, with the lemons we have in our glasshouses.”

 

“Like lemon, do you?” he asks, low and rumbling.

 

“It’s my favourite. I’m so excited that the first cake I can make you is lemon cake.”

 

“It’d be a shame if you let me down then.” The words come out, heavy and sarcastic, and mentally he can see Varys climaxing with pleasure as Sandor Clegane does His Thing. Other people are around to be encouraging and kind. He is there to smash a fist through the nicety of the entire experience. He’s there to drag them all down to a certain level of fear and horror. Not that he is without his fans: the general public love Sandor. He’s different. He wears those scars - albeit toned down with make up as apparently they look really wrong on the TV screen without cover-up - with a certain sick ‘fuck you’ pride. He’s massive, and muscular, and there have been black and white photo shoots of him moodily lit and topless, all hairy rippling chest and sullen masculinity.

 

Fan mail over that pisses him the fuck off.

 

It’s a job. Nothing more. It makes him money so he can continue baking his own creations. He is an artist, not a presenter. He is here to judge, taste, and comment, not arse around like some bloody performing poodle.

 

“I won’t let you down, Sandor. I promise.”

 

Her eyes, bright blue depths, widen just a little. She is just sweetness and light and frothy meringue cuteness.

 

The nation, as a whole, falls in love.

 

* * *

 

The leather clad man with the stare of a psychopath manages to make his batter look uncomfortably like blood.

 

“That’s interesting,” Olenna says sweetly, her own gaze as hard as the weird pale eyes of Ramsay. She takes no shit from the bakers, and there is a tiny power struggle going on between the two of them that will always result in a Tyrell triumph. Olenna is vicious when provoked. “What have you put in it?”

 

“The flesh of my enemies.”

 

“That’s pleasant, dear.”

 

“Entrails. Blood. Also orange juice.”

 

“Where did you get the orange juice?” Margaery tries to lighten the situation with an inane question, and Bolton fixes her with a deathglare. For some reason he’s wielding a carving knife. No one is sure where he got that from. No one dares approach Ramsay to remove it from his obviously capable hand. If things get too bad, the crew always vote that Beric deal with these sorts of things. Democracy is good like that.

 

“From the orange.”

 

They don’t linger, so when the niceties are over, the girls flee to the more forgiving and frankly impressive bosom of Walda. She beams so very cheerfully and chatters away about elderflower presse.

 

Sandor catches Beric out of the corner of his eye, pissing himself laughing with a hand clamped across his mouth so not to ruin the take.

 

* * *

 

Olenna, to her eternal chagrin, is banned from speaking to Willas on camera, so it falls to Sandor to question the man. Young Tyrell is trembling from nerves and the proximity of his grandmother, and Beric has to intervene to ask him to speak up, which sets his hands shaking even more.

 

“What’re you baking for us today?”

 

“I’m making a classic lemon cake,” he ventures, eyes haunted, “but I’m using lemonade to give the drizzle a little more interest.”

 

“That’s an Olenna Tyrell recipe, isn’t it?” Clegane leans - no, he looms, he likes looming - forward, and Willas turns even paler. 

 

“I-it is, b-but I’m m-making it my o-own,” he stutters, all rabbit in headlights as somewhere Varys must be wanking even more with the thought of viewing figures, and Beric makes sure that the microphone picks up every stammering word.

 

“How’re you doing that?”

 

Sandor, perfectly aware that women over thirty will vilify him for his bullying on Twitter while other demographics will be cheering at Clegane sticking one to the Tyrell empire building machine, waits.

 

“I’ve got gin in it.”

 

“Gin?” The ice in Olenna’s voice creaks a warning. “You are using gin?”

 

“Yes. Gin. In the. With. Lemonade. In the drizzle. There’s gin.”

 

“Good idea.” Beside him Olenna puffs up like an angry hamster, disgusted that her perfectly trained nephew is going against her specific orders. “I want to be able to taste it through the lemon, alright? Don’t put it in if it isn’t going to be detected.”

 

“Y-yes Mr. Clegane. Sir. Sandor. Gods. Sorry.”

 

They wander onwards, and Olenna snarls. “I cannot believe he is doing that. The idiot boy! I told him specifically to keep everything clean and classic, not fanny about with other flavours!”

 

“Nana, you like gin. Willas probably wanted to make you something you’d like.” Margaery, worried, glances back at her brother who is having a very quiet but very obvious off-camera nervous breakdown. From the bench next to him the  Dornishman with the mostly unbuttoned shirt and hair silvering at the temples murmurs gently, pauses, pours some viscous looking red liquid into a glass and forces the young Tyrell to drink it.

 

“Why do none of you ever do what you are told? Apart from you, Margaery. You are such a good girl for your Nana.” Olenna pats her granddaughter’s hand before pasting her twinkly affable smile back on her prune-wrinkled face.

 

“Shouldn’t you stop fucking publically coaching your twatting grandson?”

 

Yara grins. She loves being in the middle of the perma-argument between Olenna and Sandor. Really makes her day, the evil bint.

 

* * *

 

Alcohol in sponge seems a recurring theme this task, with three of the bakers indulging.

 

Only one of them is drunk.

 

Cersei sways gently, eyes glittering like emeralds, and she carefully slurs her way through her explanation of her vodka and lime drizzle cake.

 

Beric wonders if he should cut, ask Varys what to do, but he sees the purple-clad figure of his producer shake his head firmly. No. No cut. This will play well. He feels quite sorry for the woman, who at least seems to be functioning, but he has to do what Varys tells him. He is, after all, replaceable. Every is, Varys tells them with a certain camp relish. Everyone, from Olenna down, can be traded in for a newer, shinier model.

 

“Sounds delicious.” He can always count on Margaery to smooth things over.

 

“If you’ve still got enough vodka to put in the drizzle.” He can always count on Yara to poke great gaping wounds in the hides of his bakers.

 

* * *

 

“Hi, I’m Pod.” He has the most athletic eyebrows and the sweetest of smiles. “I’m making an orange and lemon cake, based on the nursery rhyme of the same name. My Mum used to sing it to me when I was little, before she died, so I’m making this in honour of her.”

 

Somewhere nearby, Varys murmurs appreciatively at the stockiness, the boyish charm, the dimples dancing in the young man’s cheeks.

 

The nation, for the second time that evening, falls in love. Twitter goes mental. Sansa and Pod hashtags race, neck-and-neck, and a large number of viewers voice that they should fall in love, get married, have adorable lemon-flavoured babies.

 

* * *

 

Daenerys Targaryen is well-known. Of course she is - especially in lizard breeding circles. Her family have been one of the more colourful ones in Westerosi history, after all, and she is descended from kings. If the Targs were still royalty, it has been calculated that Dany would be in all actuality, Queen of the Iron throne. She’d probably be surrounded by mutant freaky lizards the size of cart horses, proclaiming them as the great wyrms of her reign. As it is she wears a floating dress that is held up by bearded dragon shaped brooches at her collar bones, her hair a madness of overly-technical braids.

 

She looks like she would seriously fuck your shit up in the weirdest of ways.

 

“So, Dany,” Yara asks, crinkling her eyes behind her spectacles. She’s always got a soft spot for the odder contestants. Considering her stoner brother and her mad eye-patched half-pirate uncle, it makes sense. “What are you doing for me today?”

 

“Dragon cake.” She is stunning looking, but so beautiful that it can be slightly creepy to watch; like an ancient Valyrian statue that is overly symmetrical, she can leave people feeling slightly cold. “Chocolate and chilli in the dressing. I picked the recipe up when I was in Meereen.”

 

“I think that lizards will be a running theme?” Daenerys has a white-ink tattoo of dragons tracing delicately up one slender bare arm.

 

Sandor snorts.

 

“Men never understand, do they?” She fixes Yara with devastating amethyst eyes as she licks a trace of honey from her lips.

 

“Men are useless.”

 

“Women are far more superior in all things.”

 

Bloody lesbians.

 

* * *

 

Barristan is having trouble. He has scorched the top of his sponge, his drizzle looks impotent, and obviously everything is going hideously, horribly wrong. However, he is a gentleman. A military man. A decent kindly human being who is trying his best despite his obvious mistakes.

 

“Time’s getting away from me,” he intones, a strange combination of grave and cheerful.

 

He used to be Beric’s Colonel-in-Chief in the army, and is the one that invalided Dondarrion out of the service after the comi-tragic episode where he managed to die more than once. Hilarious now, yes, looking back at it all. At the time, not so amusing. How he managed to blow up a tank, no one quite knows, but most of the camera crew keep the equipment away from their erstwhile director just in case something terrible happens. Beric has a reputation of merely looking at technology and something happening.

 

He set a scanner on fire once, just with the power of his presence.

 

“I’ll just have to start again, I think.” One of those grim military smiles, and the burned sponge is dumped in the bin.

 

The elegant older woman with the long dark hair in an artistic bun, lots of handmade silver jewellery, and the slim-fit dark jeans who works on the bench behind him, calls Barristan’s name gently and he turns.

 

“Keep calm and carry on, Colonel. You can do it.”

 

“Thank you, Ashara.”

 

Twitter explodes once more. Old people need to be shipped together too.

 

* * *

 

Not quite as much as it explodes over Oberyn, who has rolled his sleeves up, unbuttoned his shirt one more notch, and is flirting with everything.

 

This includes his cake.

 

He kneels before the oven, which is highly suggestive to the members of the crew and bakers who are susceptible to sexy older men with fantastic arses in gratuitously tight trousers, and talks to the tin of mixture in his low, rich, accented purr.

 

“Ah, you cook so well, and I am proud of you. Rise, my pretty.”

 

“You always talk to your cakes, Oberyn?” Margaery fans herself. “Isn’t it hot in here?”

 

“I do, Margaery. May I say how beautiful you look this afternoon? Perhaps you are distracting us from our tasks, yes, just by being so near? If I fail, I shall blame this upon your loveliness.”

 

Of course Margie giggles. Of course Yara rolls her eyes and makes a comment about how something is definitely rising to the occasion.

 

“What are you putting in it?” Sandor, fed up and distracted as Sansa leans over to get her good-looking sponge from her own oven, sounds bored.

 

“I have my own drizzle to squirt over.” The gleam in his eyes is pure and utter filth, and Yara, who normally hates the Oberyn types, perks at the presence of a fellow innuendo-lover.

 

“Are you doing it by hand, or are you using a nozzle?”

 

“I must just let myself drip all over the cake’s face, let it trail down the sides. Baste it, if you will, with my sweetness.”

 

Fuck’s sake. It’s going to be one of those years.

 

* * *

 

Brienne is tall - almost as tall as Sandor - and sensible. She has beautiful eyes, a slight shy stiffness about her, and seems perfectly capable in her bustling about the kitchen. He’s never seen a work bench as neat as hers, with everything laid out in the proper place.

 

“I’m doing a Tarth recipe, which is a combination of water, golden sugar, and low-fat spread. Almost like a caramel, but more liquid.”

 

“It sounds very sweet,” Olenna counters, eyes narrowing.

 

“The sponge has half the sugar, and is eggless.” She smiles, a crooked thing, and her teeth are terrifying. “My husband is a sportsman, and we try and eat sensibly, even if I am baking. The sugars aren’t refined, so that allows the energy hit to not be so instant and lasts for longer, and the lower-calorie caramel drizzle is a healthy alternative that we both really enjoy. Often I’ll use sweetener, but for this recipe the cake needs the structure provided by the sugar.”

 

“Your husband, of course, being Jaime Lannister.” How the fuck she married Jaime Lannister none of them can quite work out. He is, after all, the foremost paralympian of his generation, and often competes against the able-bodied. Beats them. Looks ridiculously smug and handsome. Lives in a fucking mansion on Tarth that he manages in his spare time.

 

Sandor hates the bastard. They were at university together, on the same sports teams. Bastard.

 

Her expression softens, and she’s pretty nice looking when she’s not being the quintessential physical education teacher that she is in her usual life. 

 

“Hi Jaime,” she says to camera, and Twitter, as one, sobs into a hanky at the romance of it all. “Hope you’re not burning down Tarth without me. Give Oathkeeper a hug for me.”

 

“Who’s Oathkeeper?” Margaery eyes the healthy sponge with a wary eye.

 

“The cat. She’s a Maine Coon.”

 

“You seem the sort to like a good pussy.” Yara’s expression verges upon the demonic as Brienne blushes bright red, scars obvious.

 

* * *

 

“Isn’t this exciting?” Tyrion, who is having to use a stepstool, peers down Margaery’s top. “Is this the part where I need to innocently say an innuendo, and we all ignore it in the Westerosi fashion while the viewers giggle to themselves?”

 

He wields a whisk like a sex toy.

 

“Breaking the fourth wall, Imp?”

 

Sandor hears Beric sigh off camera, having to interject. “You can’t call him that, Sandor.”

 

Beric is somewhat of a hot topic on the _GWBO_ forums. They call him The Director, and demand they finally see who the man who marshals the proceedings looks like. No one ever suspects he’s a six foot five ginger with an eyepatch; if they do finally get him on camera, Varys has promised that the internet will break more than when that woman got her big arse out that time. Dondarrion just smiles and makes noises about how disappointed everyone would be.

 

“Oh, it’s fine. He is Mr Shouty, after all, aren’t you Clegane? All sullen and angry at us poor captive bakers as we murder recipes honed over centuries by fat chefs in castles. Speaking of fat chefs, why haven’t you and Hot Pie done any programmes together? You could be like policemen on cop shows; nice and nasty. Or are you afraid he might upstage you? I hear he’s very good with eclairs and cream filling. There, there’s your innuendo for this part.”

 

Varys. Varys is behind Tyrion, the fucker. Varys is puppetmaster. He and Tyrion have been chatting away, getting on like a tent on fire - suspiciously like old friends. He’s sure that the name has been mentioned before, mostly in alcohol-related circumstances. The dwarf reaches up, pats Clegane on the shoulder with a flour-white hand, leaving a small but broad print on his black shirt.

 

“Oh dear. I think Cleggers wants to murder me for that.”

 

“If you fu-.” Pause. Breathe. “If you fumble this challenge,” and Tyrion, the little shit, applauds him for not swearing, “you could be going home. So don’t.”

 

“Whatever you say, Sandor. How lovely it is meeting you in person. I feel quite short for once.”

 

That gets laughter since everyone else in the tent is eavesdropping, and Clegane retreats, snarling, unaware - unlike the viewers - of the sympathetic glance Sansa sends his way as he stalks from the tent.

 

* * *

 

Barristan’s is, as expected, a total fuck up. How he got his hands on salt, which isn’t even kept in the tent, they have no idea. Olenna delicately spits her bite into a handkerchief, and Clegane doesn’t rip the old man apart because you just don’t do that to soldiers who are legends. He’s going home, it’s already obvious, no one can come back from that mistake. Best to reserve his ire for the people remaining to scare the shit out of them for the next episode.

 

They munch cake, pick holes, intimidate Tyrell who is actually pretty damned good but Clegane isn’t going to tell him that out of principle. Or he was. Until Olenna bitches about the gin, even if it is beautifully blended with the rest of the ingredients, and if she had it in a cafe she’d be raving about the entire experience.

 

Poor little cunt looks like he’s being tortured. Sandor steps in - Varys did ask for balance when it comes to Willas. This is not quite how he envisaged.

 

“I think it isn’t bad at all. Maybe leave the cake in for another few minutes though, since it feels slightly undercooked.”

 

Willas nods, shivering and pathetically grateful that, and retreats back behind his bench.

 

Clegane coming to the rescue of someone is a very rare occurrence, but the bloke didn’t deserve to be hated on by his own grandmother. Someone - Oberyn - has left another small glass of that angry Dornish liqueur and Willas downs it in one. He swallows, looks down at his hands, finally remembers that breathing is a good idea.

 

Walda is, as expected, excellent. Fluffy sponge, drizzle moistening the entire thing into some glory of texture and sticky-sweetness. They can’t really say anything against her baking skills, or her neat presentation, and she is definitely one to watch. She beams, all bright and cheery and pink-rosy cheeks, and happily takes a bite of her creation herself. It’s all just a bit soul-less.

 

Daenerys’ is just weird. Like her. Yara says it looks incredible, like the baker herself, and winks to camera.

 

Ramsay’s is even weirder. Very red. Very black. Very like a crime scene. He stalks over, thunks the plate down, leans his elbows on the table and glares at each judge in turn. He’s not taken off his leather jacket, but doesn’t seem to be affected by the humidity of the baking tent. When they cut into the cake, a curiously dangerous goop oozes out, as if they’ve just stabbed someone. Olenna grimaces, takes a bite, pauses. 

 

“That is fascinating. Cherry?”

 

Ramsay nods, then does something that might almost be a smile if he didn’t look like a rabid shark looking for dinner.

 

“The texture is wonderful, and the flavours burst on the tongue.”

 

“Looks like a bloody car crash.” Sandor tastes, and shit, it is really good. Surprisingly. He does that pause thing he always does, building tension for the cameras. “Doesn’t taste like one. Well done.”

 

Ashara is capable, but a little uninspired. Nice, but nothing special, though well considered. Safe. Sandor tells her such, and when she goes behind her bench Barristan gives her a warm, kind smile.

 

Cersei doesn’t seem as if she cares. The flavour of her cake is obliterated by the vast amounts of booze that strip the tastebuds of everyone involved. She nods, haughty, at their declamations of how strong the alcohol is, as if to tell them that they are a bunch of lightweights.

 

From the ridiculous to the sublime happens just a moment later.

 

“That looks incredible.” Iced, and drizzled, and piped to perfection. Podrick turns rather pink, and cute like a large-breed puppy, and Varys makes a tiny noise of awestruck adoration as he pushes his dark hair back from his forehead. “Definitely the prettiest cake that we’ve seen today, young man.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Tyrell. It’s a pleasure baking for you and Mr. Clegane. An honour, really.”

 

Moist moreish sponge, the icing blazing with tangy orange and the tart lemon drizzle seeps through every crumb of the cake. Sandor considers, reaches over, cuts himself another slice.

 

“Seconds, Sandor?”

 

“Best cake for a long time, Olenna.”

 

Podrick beams, the slight worried expression melting just like his sponge on the tongue of the judges. Twitter reaches frenzy point with declarations of love and marriage from many corners of the continent.

 

Brienne’s cake is workmanlike, and different, though the textures are way off. Tasty though, even with the lack of sweetness in the sponge. Every mouthful seems cloying, and a little chewy, though they praise her efforts to promote healthy eating in a baking competition. Sandor makes the right noises but thinks it’s all a bit close to fucking hippy bollocks. Like quinoa. Fuck quinoa.

 

The next offering is the colour of a Dornish sunset, and Olenna can’t take her eyes from the lean musculature of Oberyn’s chest. He lounges, purrs, flirts, licks his lips, talks to camera, and is the epicentre of some sexual earthquake that rips through the peace and tranquility of the baking tent.

 

“That’s quite alcoholic,” Sandor bites out. That red liqueur that turns the yellow of the confection into that clever setting sun is an angry thing. It’s all very Dornish. He’s determinedly spiced everything.

 

“Delicious.” Olenna isn’t talking about the bloody cake any more. She and Oberyn are eye-fucking the hells out of each other. “I do love alcohol in a sponge, dear. Something to get my teeth into.”

 

Poor bloody Willas. The bitch is determined to drag her grandson down for not following orders. Sandor kicks back.

 

“Aren’t they dentures?”

 

She titters, though her expression is one of pure Sandor-murdering death. He’ll pay for that later.

 

“Next? Sansa.”

 

His heart stutters as she steps up, cake in her hands. Her hair glows russet, her eyes the sort of blue that makes other colours seem drab and lifeless.

 

“This is my honey and ginger cordial lemon drizzle cake.”

 

Olenna takes the first piece, because apparently Sandor has to defer to age and gender, and nibbles. She pauses, frowns, takes another bite.

 

“This is...well done, Sansa. One of the finest lemon drizzle cakes I think I’ve tasted, in many a year. So light and fluffy, with such sticky moistness.”

 

Her smile sets the entire tent on fire. Not actually. Metaphorically. Sansa looks genuinely thrilled to be praised, and she turns to him, hopeful.

 

Sandor is the sort of man who, if he fancies someone - it happens rarely, because he’s too involved with his baking most of the time - he grows gruff, and tight-faced, and hides his yearning in a shell of ill-disguised contempt. The past has hurt him, far too much, to trust his own judgement when it comes to love, relationships, human interaction. His friends are good people who understand his reticence and foul moods. Clegane’s family fucked his life up the moment they didn’t get Gregor arrested for what he did to his little brother’s face. Eleven year olds aren’t supposed to be evil. They aren’t supposed to shove a little boy’s face onto the gas hob of a cooker.

 

Even now Sandor can’t cook with gas; electricity all the way. Too many memories.

 

The cake is incredible; the only one better is Pod’s. The combination of heat and warmth is compelling, and the sugar she laid across the top of the cake during baking has caramelised into something crisp, and crunchy, almost like a creme brulee. Delicious. Absolutely delicious, with the slight smokiness of the melted sugar, the tingle of ginger, that sweet sharp lemon throughout.

 

_ Be nice to her _ , his heart screams. _ She’s gorgeous, adorable, and can really fucking bake. Be nice, and she might smile at you again. _

 

_ Or she’ll break your heart, you dumb fuck, so best drive her away before she’s got the chance to wreck your life, _ his bastard of a brain hisses.  _ Even if she is too fucking pretty. She needs taking down for daring to be beautiful. She needs dragging through the fucking mud. Bet she’s never suffered a day in her bloody perfect Sansa life, has she? Rip her open, Sandor. Bring her down to your level because she deserves every little last bit of it. Dirty her. Make her realise life isn’t cupcakes and fucking kittens. _

 

“It’ll do, I suppose.” Monotone.

 

Her pretty face falls, expression traumatised, and Sandor, in that moment, absolutely loathes himself. Why can he just not genuinely appreciate the skill in that cake? Why can’t he just go with it, give the product the praise it deserves, and watch her be all fizzy and lovely as she bounces back to her bench? Why is it so hard to be nice to someone who he wants to get the fucking recipe off?

 

Oh yes. That’s right. Because he’s a screwed up dickhead who has to try and destroy everything that’s nice in life. Yeah. Thanks, brain.

 

Under the table he is kicked, very hard, but Olenna’s expression doesn’t change from serene calm.

 

“I think that’s a little harsh, Sandor.”

 

“When she’s talking about how bloody good she is, I expect her to deliver.”

 

“But-?”

 

“That’s all.”

 

She presses a hand over her mouth, and Sandor despises himself even more.

 

After that, and the resulting shock spattered all over Twitter at how awful Clegane is, and how mean, and poor darling Sansa, and how Pod should wrap her in his lovely cuddly arms and make her feel better, no one particularly cares about Tyrion’s amusing attempt at a cake that turns out to be as dense as Sandor feels.

 

* * *

 

The next rounds speed by in some sort of blur. The good remain good, the bad remain shocking. 

 

What he’s done sinks in, like a lead weight. He’s just destroyed a young girl’s confidence, needlessly, because of his own ridiculous insecurities when faced with someone he finds attractive. Sandor Clegane has broken this sweet, cheerful, pretty girl’s heart because of the off-chance she might get to him and shatter his first. He is a cunt. A twat. A wanker. A low-life. A colossal, as Beric will put it when filming finishes and there is a post mortem on his behaviour, dick.

 

The sadness never leaves Sansa, even if her bakes are lovely. She looks smaller, and a little lost, and when she looks at Clegane she almost cowers.

 

Pod wins Star Baker for his mirror cake that he decorates with sugar shards and swirls. It is a classy thing, with an excellent genoise underneath and meringue running through the buttercream in the middle and around the outside, under the perfectly shiny icing that is both dark and white chocolate.

 

At the end of it, when jaffa cakes are considered and mirror cakes sampled, Barristan goes. He leaves with Ashara’s phone number, a salute from Beric, and a feeling of slight relief from the judges.

 

* * *

 

“You were horrible, Sandor.” Beric massages his temples, looking pained. “The public are going to be up in arms and think you’ve got some sort of misogynistic hate for women.”

 

Varys, of course, is thrilled. “The publicity, darling. Imagine the publicity!” He pats Sandor lightly on the shoulder, expensive rings - courtesy of Hot Pie, which rankles because even that fat bastard has someone who loves him, even if that person is Varys - sparking, before he departs to marshal the film crew into doing whatever they do after the episode is in the can.

 

He sits, staring at the floor, hating himself. Dragging Sansa down like that was the first time that Sandor has felt as if he’s let his own feelings get in the way of the show at large. Before this he’s been honest, and blunt, and that’s endearing to a lot of people apparently. They like the truth being said, the public; they like the dynamic between himself and Olenna, the matriarchal saccharine of the woman to the sharpness of the man. They enjoy the gentleness of  _ GWBO _ , and the patter, and the innuendo. They do not switch on their TVs to watch a man who should know better ritually disembowel the nation’s soon to be sweetheart on a Wednesday evening.

 

“You alright?”

 

“I’m a cunt. I shouldn’t have done it.”

 

“No, you shouldn’t. Even I know that’s a good cake. I...might have eaten most of it. Her and Pod are the best bakers here, Sandor. Why did you say that to her?”

 

“Because I fucking did.”

 

“Is it because you find her attractive?”

 

Sometimes he hates Beric, who is some sort of amateur psychologist. He’s the one that the crew go to when they need to talk stuff over, and Dondarrion has a sympathetic ear, a zen way of coping, a warm and broad shoulder to cry on. Not that Clegane weeps on anyone. That’s something he’s never done. 

 

“She’s beautiful. Talented. Fuck’s sake. I can’t show favouritism, Dondarrion. If I do, I’ll be fucked over. I’ve no fucking clue what happened.” Lies. All lies. Losing a friend because of his own inner screw-up is not an option, though, so lies it is. It makes the situation even worse, even more grubby; as if this episode is just a thick blanket of falsehoods, and wrongness, and Clegane’s inner demons rising to the surface like bubbles in fizzy pop.

 

“You can be civil to someone who is that good.” A sigh, an arm looping around Sandor’s shoulder. For a moment he freezes, unused to being touched, but Beric is one of the only people allowed to get close to him. They’ve shared experiences. They’re of a similar age to understand shit. They’re the fucked up face twins who have a sort of friendship to the point where they keep in contact outside of the show itself. Sometimes they meet up for a pint or two, or to have lunch, or to go to rugby matches and reminisce about how good they used to be at the game. Clegane played from his university, and Beric for the army, before shit happened. They avoid talking about non-existent love lives, and concentrate on other, less depressing areas.

 

“She’s adorable.”

 

“She is.”

 

“Gorgeous. Sweet. Kind.”

 

“I think you’re projecting what you hope her to be there, Sandy.”

 

“Fuck off, you prick.”

 

“She is, though. You’re right. She seems such a nice girl. Promise me you won’t do that again, Sandor? I’m thinking of you, here. Once this episode airs, you’re going to be vilified by everyone in Westeros. Sansa is going to be the sweetheart of this series, we all know that. You’re kicking the sweetheart of Westeros in the face with your size twelves, and I don’t want the public dragging you down when you’re already doing it to yourself.”

 

Clegane grumbles.

 

“I’m fucked. Totally fucked.”

 

“Just be your honest self, mate, that’s all I ask.”

 

Sandor rubs his face with his still slightly lemon-scented hand. First episode of a brand-new series, and he’s fucked up beyond measure. This is even worse than the time he told Olenna that she was a washed-up raddled geriatric who wouldn’t know a foccacia from a ciabatta if it shoved itself in her whore mouth like the cocks that she takes her teeth out to suck.

 

Disagreement about using oil or eggs in certain cake batters brings out the worst in both of them.

 

* * *

 


	2. Week 2: Iced Biscuits, Viennese Whirls, and Gingerbread Houses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to get the apples comment Candice made in as requested! Candice is an innuendo lover's wet dream. God bless that woman and her amazing lipstick. As always, show influence is in this - this time S7, ep.2.

* * *

 

 

The bickering never ceases.

 

Beric wonders if he is zen enough to not strangle Olenna and Sandor with his own extremely expensive headphone cord. They’ve been at each other’s throats now for thirty seven minutes, and even Dondarrion, patience personified, is fraying around the edges with it all. The disagreement, as it stands, is over one of the challenges; gingerbread - eggs or eggless.

 

A burning issue, obviously.

 

Beric doesn’t care, as long as it ends up in his digestive tract and tastes nice. 

 

“The egg is essential for the richness,” Sandor growls, hands fisted at his sides. “Without it, it’s a cunting sheet of fucking cardboard with no frigging soul or texture, you dozy old tart. Just because you’re ancient enough to remember fucking rationing-”

 

Olenna regards him imperiously, down the length of her patrician nose. “Egg is unnecessary. Golden syrup does perfectly well, as you once told me in a letter you sent me.”

 

“...I was twelve! I wasn’t old enough to make rational fucking kitchen decisions!"

 

She smirks, the nice old lady mask slipping to reveal her inner, true self.

 

“I’m thirty fucking six now! I’m old enough to know that no egg in gingerbread is the fucking worst idea since, shit, I’ve no clue. It’s bollocks!”

 

“We shall see today, when we sample their produce. Sandor, be a dear, take that horrid face of yours and bugger off? On the way, get Varys to bring the gin and tonic over. I feel a migraine coming on.”

 

Clegane refused to move, snarling quietly, like some sort over-sized mastiff. Olenna, aware she’s not winning that one, graciously takes her leave instead.

 

Her exit from the tent - the one they use for pre-filming, and storing all of the essentials like crew employed to quietly wash things up, cameras, Olenna’s muscular personal assistant when he’s around, the back-up gin supplies - is as regal as she is. Head high, shoulders back, slightly worrying blazer and slacks combo perfectly pressed. She’s wearing a pearl necklace today. Yara, merciless in her innuendo about that, promised Varys, very solemnly, that she’ll get even more pervy commentary in regards to the jewellery into filming.

 

“...I’d prefer working with fucking Hot Pie.”

 

“That’s a big thing, coming from you.” Clegane and Varys’ extremely common, extremely fat, and extremely famous boyfriend are each other's’ nemeses. There isn’t enough room in Westeros, apparently - at least according to Sandor - for two extremely good pastry chefs; technically Clegane is his rival’s replacement on  _ GWBO _ , but thankfully they are kept apart by careful scheduling from the  _ WBC _ . Hot Pie rules the weekends, on  _ Saturday Kitchen Live _ , and Sandor is Lord of the Weeknight.

 

Varys once told Sandor that perhaps he and Hot Pie should have sex and get it all over and done with.

 

Varys is a pervert.

 

“Can we get someone to kill the old cow?”

 

“I’ve not got my handy list of assassins and serial killers with me today, Sandor, sorry.”

 

Clegane paces. The make up over his scarring looks powdery, fake, and they’re both aware he wants to scratch it off with his nails. The artists who do the prep work are great, and Beric has a warm fatherly feeling towards all of his crew, but he feels for the man No one should have to be painted up just to stop people being freaked out by the depth and extent of his injuries. If he was a war veteran, if he’d been manfully injured like Beric in some sort of incident, people would give Sandor a hell of a lot more respect. Because the accident - not really, but in polite society they refer to it as a prank gone wrong, and if Beric ever meets Gregor Clegane, he is going down in a flaming fury of R’hllor-fuelled righteousness and receiving a damned good kicking - was a childhood incident, very few seem to realise that the scars are not just on his face. 

 

There are wounds, and there are wounds. Some of them are, apparently, more noble than others. Some of them aren’t seen. Some of them aren’t palatable on primetime television at 8pm on Wednesday nights.

 

“Set Ramsay on her. He’ll make her into a fucking cake.”

 

“It’d be the way she’d want to go.”

 

Sandor seems as if he wants to punch something.

 

“Oh, here’s something.” Beric, who likes being the hero, changes the subject. “Did you know it isn’t just Olenna who’s gaming us this year?”

 

“Fuck’s sake. Let me guess. Varys?” Obvious answer is obvious.

 

“Varys.”

 

“How?”

 

“I’ve been digging. He’s friends with Tyrion, apparently - they go to the pub together. Tyrion owns a chain,  _ The Mayflower _ franchise? Cersei is Tyrion’s sister. She applied using her married name, even though she has been divorced for eight years. Now, get this.” He leans forward, eyes alight. Beric loves gossip. “Cersei? If she’s Tyrion’s sister, she’s Jaime Lannister’s twin sister.”

 

“...you’re fucking joking, right?”

 

“So, that makes Brienne the sister-in-law of Tyrion and Cersei. One entire quarter of our baking dozen is related.”

 

“Varys is a cunt. Who does he want to win?”

 

Beric shakes his head. “None of them, to be honest. I think he’s done it to try and get some drama happening. Or, at least, he thinks they’ll make good contestants. Cersei the drunk, who always uses vodka. Tyrion the little person who is great for a laugh, and ticks certain inclusivity boxes. Brienne tries to do the healthy option whenever she can, and is married to one of the most famous men in Westeros. I think he might be out to humiliate Cersei, as I’m sure there’s bad blood between her and Tyrion, and if Varys is friends with Tyrion, maybe he’s getting back at her for something she said to his friend?”

 

“...you think about shit too much, Dondarrion.”

 

“It’s why I’m a director. I’m paid to think about shit too much, mate. Go and get a coffee and try and relax. I can rub your shoulders if you need? Did you look up that therapist I recommended? Want a toffee?”

 

Beric is nothing but a repository of sweets. He’s always got a bag somewhere on his person. Series seven involved sherbert lemons. The Infamous Series Six was punctuated with humbugs. Humbugs have been ruined for the entire crew forever due to The Infamous Series Six. He’s been through bull’s-eyes, acid drops, those chewy minty ones that stick teeth together, and Varys banned Blackjacks because everyone, including the bakers, ended up with black tongues, like human-giraffe hybrids.

 

* * *

 

The makeup girl dashes forward with one of the big fluffy brushes they use to put powder over faces, dabs frantically at his cheek, then retreats before Sandor can tear her a new one. He’s wearing black; now his shirt is covered in the stuff, he itches, he’s hot, he’s already pissed-off with the world, and now he has to face Sansa again.

 

Of all the things, the last is the worst.

 

Her wide eyes still haunt him. So blue, and pained, and hurt. He did that. He, because he is a colossal twat of the first order, made Sansa upset. According to Varys, who sounded far too pleased about it, she’d been quietly sobbing outside of the baking tent while Podrick and Willas ineffectively tried to cheer her up, and Walda swept her into an immensely floury and motherish hug. She surfaced eventually, teary and sniffling, Tyrell’s hanky a wet and soggy mess in her hand, while the others - and they tasted the cake, fuck’s sake! Who let the bloody bakers eat the cake? That’s Beric’s job, the fat bastard, to finish off the baked good - said they just couldn’t understand why Sandor had been so cruel when her product was so very tasty indeed.

 

Yara lounges against an upright, ostensibly outside the tent although only her head and arm manage to do that, cigarette in hand. Much to the chagrin of people who rely on their tastebuds for their career - Olenna - and the irritation of Clegane, who wants to snatch the fag out of her hand and smoke it himself. He gave it up years ago, after university, when his palate started failing, but sometimes, at levels of high stress, he still gets the craving.

 

“You look your usual cheerful self, Cleggers.”

 

“Fucking hell, woman, stop calling me that.”

 

“Cleggers,” she half-sings.

 

“Yara!”

 

“And still you hate me less than you hate Olenna. Such a happy world in which we live.” 

 

“You’re all fucking shit. All of you.”

 

“Even me?” Margaery pouts.

 

“...apart from you.”

 

“Thank you, Sandor. You’re always the gentleman.”

 

“Mostly because you’re too perfect to piss him off, princess.”

 

“You adore princesses. You’re so after Dany it’s unreal.”

 

“What can I say? I have incredible taste.” She grins, gap-toothed, flicks her cigarette butt at the sand bucket and punches the air as she scores. “She’s insanely hot.”

 

“You sound like Theon.” Margaery and Theon had a Thing. Margaery and the population of Westeros have, by now, probably had a Thing. For someone who looks so classy and elegant, she’s got a smutty side and likes to indulge.

 

“Theon’s pissed he’s not camera crew this series.”

 

“He shouldn’t have got stoned and eaten the showstoppers, should he?” Series six. Infamous. Not the worst thing to happen. Not by a country mile.

 

Yara grins wider, all squiddish. “I love my baby brother. He’s great, isn’t he?”

 

* * *

 

They race through iced biscuits and Viennese whirls. The stand outs are Pod, who is just really bloody good at everything he touches and incredibly relaxed about the whole thing, and Sansa, who still remains quiet. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, even when she wins the technical round. Yara, beaming, says the definition of her Viennese whirls reminds her of a male stripper, but not that she’s seen many of them in her life. 

 

Willas is more than decent. He seems more at home with biscuit week, and earns a warm smile off his grandmother with his precision icing skills. His shortbread honey snaps with their carefully piped roses are simply adorable.

 

Ramsay’s biscuits are tiny corpses, with the skin flayed off, creepily detailed and really very tasty with raisins and candied orange peel. He stares at Olenna, unblinking, explains that flaying is very important to him as a hobby, and that when he’s not doing his professional online gaming career, he studies taxidermy and necrology.

 

It sets Beric, who has told Sandor that he’s sure Ramsay is a performance artist and he’s trolling the hell out of the  _ Bake Off _ , giggling again. Every so often his voice makes an appearance on the programme, almost like he’s a documentary maker, and there are some who live for his warm, low-baritone intonation and Stormlands accent. As ever, when he interjects, Twitter frenzies. They demand to see The Director, and they are desperate to see him now. Again they try and guess what he looks like. Again they are woefully incorrect. The current incarnation of DreamTwitter!Beric is tall, dark, and a bit like Benedict Cumberbatch. Last week it was Idris Elba. What that says about Benedict Cumberbatch and the wishful thinking of Twitter, no one really knows. However, #TheDirectorGWBO trends like mad. For a time it overtakes #adorapod and #sweetheartsansa, but is soon obliterated by #drunkcerseiisdrunk.

 

Because she is. Spectacularly. And yet? Yet she’s not the worst.

 

Her biscuits are the correct shape, since she used a cutter - thankfully no one gave her a scalpel - but how she got vodka into both her iced cookies in the shape of lions and her thoroughly mediocre Viennese whirls no one can guess.

 

Tyrion, grinning, also does lions. His are rampant, obviously, and the icing technique is sub-par. Surprisingly good whirls though, with the cream and jam coming right to the edges, but let down by them being small. He says, in his interview afterwards, that they are obviously dwarfist against biscuits, and he demands a recount.

 

Walda’s are perfect, and, yet, still that bit boring. She’s lovely, she’d make a fantastic mother, and she’s so desperate to make everyone happy, but her whirls are slightly meh. Brienne has an excellent iced biscuit round, and then a total shocker in technical part; she’s not used to using things like sugar in such demanding quantities, get confused, and ends up with melted whirls that look like they’ve done ten rounds with a steam roller. She takes her failure with grace and dignity, telling Jaime not to expect her to make them when she comes home, and they’ll just have to get some from the supermarket instead.

 

Ashara is, again, perfectly average. Nice tasting, pretty enough, and insipid. She needs to up her game, but she seems fairly safe going into the final round. Olenna did complain about her stinginess with the jam, though; cardinal sin, there. Shocking.

 

Over at the other Dornish bench, Oberyn makes biscuits that, until they are iced, are definitely penises. He keeps a perfectly straight face as he samples one on camera, lips wrapping around the crisp golden crust, eyes closing, moaning as he exclaims how good it is on his tongue. When they are finally coloured in, and quite well - Oberyn is artistic as he is filthy - they turn out to be rainbows with a pot of gold at the end.*

 

Obviously.

 

No one is surprised when Dany Does Dragons, as Yara says, making it sound like some sort of bestiality fetish thing. The two women flirt so much that the first batch of wyrms overcooks.

 

Daenerys just smiles, in the sort of way that makes Beric look virtually sane when there’s fire around and he gets properly into his R’hllor thing.

 

“Dracarys. Some biscuits are meant to burn.”

 

* * *

 

Gingerbread houses are, considering everything, one of Sandor’s favourite challenges; mostly because people fuck up horribly, and it all turns out hilarious. 

 

“Today,” Margaery calls, bright and cheery, “you must make and ice a gingerbread sculpture, with at least eight elements, telling the story of one of the best days of your life. You must use nothing but gingerbread and icing, and there must be some sort of 3D edifice. Bakers, you have four hours. Good luck!”

 

Eleven contestants enter panic stations, and for the first five minutes all that can be heard is the frantic whizzing of food mixers in chorus.

 

“This is going to be a fucking trainwreck.” 

 

“I’m sure they’ll be using no eggs, dear. It’ll be fine.” Olenna radiates contempt.

 

“Eggs are fucking better, you toy-boy shagging dust-cunted va-”

 

A cough, not even from Beric this time. Of all the times for Varys to be mincing about, it has to be this one. He fixes them both with a purple-eyed glare, and really, the bloke fucking adores purple. Everything is in shades of lilac, and lavender, and aubergine, from his brogues to the rings on his fingers and the oh so gay stud in his ear. Stranger knows where he gets his made-to-measure suits from, but it’s nowhere tasteful. 

 

A finger jabs at the two of them, slides, hinting, across Varys’ throat, before he mouths ‘Hot Pie will do it for cheaper.’

 

At that, they decide on a truce. At least for this challenge. Afterwards things will deteriorate once more, but given the threat of being replaced by a fat twat with a cheerful Riverlands accent and the inability to pronounce his haitches, it seems to be the more sensible option.

 

* * *

 

“Now, Cersei. What are you making with your gingerbread?”

 

Glassy green eyes stare dismissively at them, as if she is some sort of queen, before she languidly waves her cutting knife. It narrowly misses decapitating Yara, who has the sort of reflexes only sporty lesbians can have, leaping neatly from the falling blade.

 

“You said the best day of my life? So, that’s when I had my little Joff.”

 

Someone starts laughing hysterically, and the woman shoots Tyrion a hating deathglare.

 

“Your son?”

 

“Yes. See, this is the maternity suite, complete with bathroom. This is me, and this is a nurse, and this is my twin, Jaime. Oh, and Robert. Should put Robert in, I suppose, putting his hand up the midwife’s skirt as I pushed his child into the world.” She smiles sweetly before stabbing the paper cutout of her ex-husband man with her knife. Viciously. Seventeen times.

 

Sandor scans her bench for any sign of booze, catches sight of a water bottle cunningly hidden in the wiring next to the oven, and snags it. Great TV, sure. Varys definitely wants her destroyed. Vitriolic women having babies, and he hopes to fuck there’s no actual birthing of gingerbread babies from gingerbread vaginas to be created. Frustratingly, he finds himself pondering how she’d actually do that. How would she keep the baby in the mother gingerbread person? Would she be pregnant, or would it be emerging into the world? Perhaps use the bed to prop everything up, and-

 

Fuck this.

 

“We look forward to seeing what you bring us, Cersei.” Margaery. Bless her heart

 

* * *

 

Tyrion is a little shit. 

 

Seriously, an evil vindictive little shit.

 

“Oh, the best day of my life is when Jaime and Brienne got married, and how he finally settled down with a woman who deserves him.. How odd, I think you’ll have three gingerbread creations with the same person in it. Running theme, or what? It’s almost as if we’re desperate to sculpt the life of one of Westeros’ favourite sons in cake. I’m pretty sure this is a first, Sandy.”

 

Clegane freezes at that, as Tyrion gives him a wide, demonic grin. At the bench in front of them, the back of Cersei’s neck turns scarlet. She reaches for the bottle that Sandor confiscated, comes back empty handed and furious, and ‘accidentally’ decapitates the figure of Robert Baratheon.

 

“Anyway, Jaime getting married was the best thing for him. I mean, he’d never been in love before, not properly. The usual infatuation, but don’t we all have them? Then Brienne comes along, sweeps him off his feet like the princess he is, and it’s all like Beauty and the Beast. Not saying which one is which, by the way, as I adore my sister-in-law.”

 

Redder. Can a woman turn the colour of a volcano and still survive? Can her already at strain vascular system cope? Fascinating, really, how irate Cersei grows at Tyrion’s obviously directed chatter. No wonder Varys put them near one another. Character assassination via baking and reality TV. Clever fucks, the producer and the dwarf.

 

“So Brienne is your sister in law?” Olenna knows this, of course she does. She probably has the ancestry of every great house of the Seven Kingdoms memories right back to the heady days of Egg and Dunk. Apart from the Targaryens. The incest makes that family tree more like a family ouroborus.

 

“She is.” He turns, throws a thumbs up at Brienne who is wielding a tiny sword-shaped cookie cutter, and she returns it with a confused frown. “But then darling Cersei is my big sister. We’re just a great big happy family, us Lannisters.”

 

“I can see from Cersei’s expression that this is definitely true.” Yara can’t help sniggering as Cersei spins on the spot, holding a quickly and crudely cut piece of gingerbread in the shape of a dwarf and eviscerates it with pure and dripping hatred.

 

* * *

 

“Am I to presume this is your wedding, Brienne?”

 

She looks up, still frowning, though more out of concentration than anything else. The tent is warm again, with all the ovens going, and she looks sweaty, pink, and tired. For once, it looks like someone is actually really battling their way through the task; Brienne is a fighter.

 

“No. Sorry Tyrion, it’s not. You were wrong.”

 

“Not to worry, favourite and better looking sister.”

 

A scream off camera is heard as Cersei smashes the maternity suite bathroom to bits with her fist.

 

“So, what are we looking at here?” She’s baking a sword. Sandor crowds closer, fascinated. “Swords?”

 

“I used to fence, at university.” A softness comes over her, the same sort of when she talks about her husband, or her cat. It makes Brienne glow. It makes people wonder how passionate she really is, in life and in bed. Not that Clegane cares. She’s not his type. He’s not keen on women who can take him in a fight. “That’s how Jaime and I met - he was my coach, until he lost his hand.”

 

“Tragically, I may add,” Margaery soothes, rubbing her hand across the back of Brienne’s massive shoulders.

 

“Anyway,” and Brienne, like Sandor he’s pleased to see, hates all that sob story shit. “This is a depiction of me fighting in the inter-kingdom fencing tournament and winning. I’ve made Jaime a tiny prosthetic hand out of melted sugar-free toffee.”

 

“I like you,” someone says, and Clegane realises that he’s talking without thinking. “I do broadsword myself.”

 

“I’ve always wanted a go, but I’ve not had the opportunity to try. You’ll have to tell me where there is a club, so I can go along.” Long rough hands shape her gingerbread dough, before Brienne seizes her rolling pin unthinkingly, slashing into the air as if she’s fencing. The way she moves is bloody fantastic; all strength and precision.

 

A lot better than her fucking Viennese whirls.

 

“Are you using eggs?” Fucking Olenna.

 

“No, I’m using a low-sugar syrup of my own device.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll be lovely, dear. Eggs in gingerbread is somewhat of an acquired taste, isn’t it?”

 

Bitch. Fucking ancient should be dead cow.

 

* * *

 

Willas has a notebook, a ruler, and a set of compasses. He looks...almost relaxed, which is great considering he’s been on the edge of a massive coronary; the unwavering love for his biscuits has settled him, and he manages to even smile at the camera. When he smiles, he’s all cheekbones.

 

Twitter, confused, wonders when frightened little Tyrell get hot. When he developed wide soulful eyes, and perfectly tamed curls, and freckles across his nose. Even people who aren’t women over thirty start making noises. Someone writes an ode to his cheekbones, and it goes viral in thirty eight minutes.

 

The camera catches a fascinating angle of Oberyn doing nothing but leaning on his bench, chin cupped in his hands, ogling Willas’ arse; the aforementioned backside is framed by the apron and his neatly fitting sensible dark jeans.

 

“You look technical. I’ve never seen a man handle his implement with such panache.” Yara picks up a spirit level, curiously. “Are you going to be able to keep absolutely straight?”

 

“I’m making Highgarden, where I grew up.” Willas, as he is Willas, seems unable to get innuendo. Virgin. Must be. Olenna’s probably locked him in a tower to learn how to run the estate and the baking empire, and will only let him out with a chastity belt on. Tyrell hums for a moment, then smiles at them all. “Sorry, this is fun. I hum when I’m having fun. Thank you for being so lovely about my biscuits, it’s perked me up ever so much. Who’d have thought this scary thing could get fun, eh? Nothing to worry about, Willas! It’s all fun. You’ve practiced this exactly four times.”

 

“Roses, then?” Olenna, chastened by the two-pronged attack of Margaery and Varys telling her that deviation from a recipe is not the worst thing in the world, is now allowed to speak as long as she keeps her comments neutral. If Sandor says Willas’ baking is good, she’s allowed to agree with him.

 

“Roses, yes. Apple trees, we had such lovely apples off them. I can still remember them even now. Oh, and this is my horse. He’s the one I had the accident on, but he was always very kind. I do miss him.”

 

“Burning question, Willas. Have you got a favourite apple?” It’s obvious where Yara is leading this, as she’s got her fingers crossed behind her back, out of sight.

 

“Gosh, that is a question, isn’t it? Um. I think I like the flavour of Cox the best.”

 

Only Sandor, because he’s expecting it, sees the slightly awkward angle air punch of triumph from his second favourite lesbian. Not that he’s got a first, but he’s never going to let Yara have the satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

“Oberyn?”

 

Nothing. He’s rolling dough and watching Willas.

 

“Oberyn?!” Margaery waves her hand in front of the man’s face.

 

Coffee dark eyes focus, before he’s back in the tent. A grin, shameless, and he tilts his head towards Tyrell. “I was enjoying the view. My apologies, Olenna. Margaery. As Romeo said to Juliet in Act 1 sc. 5 of the eponymous play,  _ ‘ _ _ Forswear it, sight, for I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.’ _ ”

 

Pretentious Dornish arsehole. Twitter does not agree. Twitter swoons over trite quotes, innuendo, chest hair, and the silvering at Oberyn’s temples. Twitter is a dickhead. Twitter ships it. Hard.

 

“We do not leer at other contestants,” Olenna snaps. Sandor supplies the rest mentally;  _ especially my virgin-arsed angelic to be the next generation of Tyrell baking gods grandson, you debauched Dornish rampant homosexual. _

 

“Ah, but is appreciating leering? Is considering the beauty of the form of another truly wrong, my Olenna? Beauty comes in so many shapes, so many sizes, so many situations. Sometimes it is the shimmer of dew upon a flowering bud, caught in the warming rays of the morning. Sometimes it is the trickling stream of laughter from a bright-eyed child. Sometimes beauty is more primal, more thrilling. It compels, and drags one forward, and it can never be fought. Startling, perhaps, and yet so lovely in every possible way.”

 

Olenna twitches, fingers wrapping around a pretend neck to pretend strangle. She keeps the gesture out of camera view. Understandably, on both counts. 

 

“What are you making for us, Oberyn? Some divine Dornish delight?”

 

“Margaery, I bow before your alliterative skills. Such cleverness with words you have. Today, I will be creating a feast for your eyes, a gingerbread erection guaranteed to fulfil your every desire.”

 

“I’m looking forward to seeing your rampant edifice in all its glory.” Yara and Oberyn grin at each other. According to Beric, one of the runners found the two of them closeted  - heh - in a corner, discussing what filth they can get into this episode. They are now a tag team of smut, and the nation is going down.

 

Heh. Again.

 

* * *

 

Walda prefers hand mixing everything, because that’s how she was taught. She’s got the impressive upper arms to prove it, under her cuddly softness. The number of Frey in her house was such that they could never afford anything more than the basics. Her boyfriend, who she doesn’t name, but calls her Leechy, bought her one of the mixers they had on the previous series of  _ GWBO _ .

 

“But you changed them, which is silly, but maybe if I win I can get a second mixer, like the new ones?”

 

Yara, inspired by Oberyn’s presence, is on a roll. “I’m sure that you’re a girl who likes having two mechanical aids thrashing your batter about.”

 

Walda giggles, eyes bright. “You’re so awful, Yara. I think you’re so cool. I wish I was like you, so brave and fierce!”

 

“She’s like Beyonce,” Willas interjects from the opposite bench. He’s holding a tiny and impressively sculpted pony in one hand, and a professional looking set square in the other. Computer print-outs cover the surfaces and he has no less than five alarms set for various times. It is the most organised thing that Sandor has seen, and he’s slightly freaked out by it all. Baking, to him, is an art and not a science. It is the instinctive melding of man and foodstuff, of lightness and appreciation for fine ingredients, of understanding and nurturing a cake from ingredients to the magnificence of the finished product.

 

Sandor isn’t a pretentious man, but he will wax lyrical about baking. Mostly without being asked.

 

“Oh, I love Beyonce! My Leechy said we can go and see her in concert, even though he likes requiems and classical more. He’s lovely, is my Leechy. I’m making him, and me, and his dogs - well, his son’s dogs. Great big mastiffs! They live in a kennel outside, thankfully, so I don’t have to go and see them as they’re as tall as me on their back legs! We met in a park, where Myranda stole a sandwich from me-”

 

Across the room something explodes in a shower of porcelain. Just Ramsay having another tantrum for whatever fucking reason. No one knows. No one cares.

 

Walda blinks, wide eyed, pushing her reading glasses up her nose. “So I’m doing that.”

 

* * *

 

“It isn’t going well,” Ashara sobs, thankfully without snot. She’s too classy for snot, and her mascara remains firmly adhered to her eyelashes. Every so often, she dabs lightly at the corners of her eyes with a piece of kitchen roll. She’s used chopsticks to put her hair into a bun, and everything is escaping. The general effect is heartbroken yet pluckily continuing. “I’ve burned the first lot, and this one really isn’t playing at all. Maybe I should have stuck to my recipe, rather than the one Barristan recommended?”

 

Her model of a tower, based on her childhood in Dorne, complete with her and Arthur Dayne poncing around, is, as ever, perfectly average in every way. Though burned. And limp. Floppy. 

 

“I think I have a problem.”

 

Margaery rubs her forearm supportively, eliciting a watery smile.

 

“Less tears, more sorting out,” Yara adds, like some sort of bull in a china shop with the propensity to stomp clumsily all over the fragile heads of her bakers.

 

* * *

 

“Torture chamber.”

 

“How...singular.”

 

It is easier to approach Ramsay as if he’s a grenade that no one is sure whether the pin is in or not. He’s still sporting that leather jacket, and today’s t-shirt has the Empire logo from Star Wars writ in red and black.

 

Ramsay is, as ever, very red or black. He’s the human equivalent of a roulette wheel.

 

“Roose collects torture equipment, and we used to go and play with it when I was a kid-”

 

“My boyfriend’s name is Roose,” Walda calls, happy as a rotund pixie. Ramsay fixes her with the sort of psychotic glare that mass murderers favour, and she flees back to her confectionary, whimpering.

 

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” he goes on, lip curling, “I’m making a dungeon with medieval torture equipment. I’m making sugar spikes for the inside of the iron maiden. There will be red jelly on the floor for the pools of blood. The flogging cross will possibly have a flayed man on it. I think I’ll say it’s Roose.”

 

“And who’s Roose?” Margaery asks, trying to lighten the conversation but there really is no way whatsoever of doing that. The ever present carving knife is stabbed through a left-over lump of gingerbread mix. It’s got so much chocolate in it that the entire ball of dough seems black and menacing. As much as unbaked biscuit can, anyhow.

 

Which it can. Sandor remembers the impact the salmonella crisis had on the baking industry as a whole. Dark dark days.

 

Ramsay’s short square fingers wrap about the handle of the knife, and he grins. Actually grins. Grins, drives the knife into the chopping board so hard that it sticks there, gently vibrating.

 

“My dear old Dad.”

 

As usual, because he has some sort of Pavlovian reaction to Ramsay’s particular brand of don’t give a shit fucked-upness, Beric has his hand stuffed in his mouth, trying not to laugh too noisily.

 

Hopefully Beric is right and this is just acting. Hopefully. Because if they need to put Ramsay down at some point, with a bullet, or a rolling pin to the head, or one of Brienne’s brick-like Viennese whirls to the temple, it’s down to Dondarrion to take him out. What else is a director for if not throwing in the way of certain death?

 

* * *

 

Gods. Fuck. Shit. Bollocks. Sansa.

 

She does that looking up through her eyelashes once more, and her smile is there, but there is none of that sweet warmth that is her in the expression. She remains, as ever, poised and lovely and fragrant, even with her fingers stained with grey icing and, again, an adorable smudge of something across her cheek.

 

Sandor suppresses the urge to lick his thumb and wipe away the stickiness. Freckles dance across her cheeks, and she is the most adorable, special creature he’s ever seen in this tent. In the vicinity of the tent. Fuck it, the entire continent, and Essos, and beyond. He clears his throat, puts on his professional face which doesn’t include staring at women as if he wants to kidnap them away from it all and make her safe from all of the terrors of the world.

 

Why is this happening? There have been cute girls on  _ Bake Off  _ previously - Varys finds them, wherever they are, and there is always a sweetheart on the show. There are categories; the adorable young man. The Women’s Institute almost semi-professional. The engaging but useless older man. The hairdresser. Where Varys finds a steady stream of hairdressers when the bastard is so bald Clegane has no idea. Probably through fucking Hot Pie and his network of gays that he so carefully nurtures. The nature of the entertainment industry does attract a whole bunch of homosexuals and lesbians, as evidenced by half of the film crew.

 

“What’re you making for me today, Sansa?”

 

His voice almost cracks.

 

Twitter quivers, like a dog at a bone. Is Sandor Clegane contrite? Has #TheDirectorGWBO had a word about being a dick? Is this the first time, in the history of  _ GWBO _ that the top (or second placed, depending on whether shouty and passionate, or chirpy and common, is your bag) pastry chef in Westeros has regretted making previous comments?

 

Sansa looks up, her face carefully neutral. “This is based on the day my father brought home a litter of wolf-dogs for me and my siblings. It was one of the times in my life where I felt so very happy. It was also one of the last times that we were all together. Robb’s in the army now, and Jon’s at the Wall. He’s not my brother, not by blood, but he is,. He feels like my brother, and I love him. Arya is in Braavos, with her partner. They run a private investigation agency. Bran could walk then - i-it was before the accident.” 

 

She swallows at that, eyes wide and liquid and filled with tears.

 

The camera laps it up.

 

Margaery goes into full back-rubbing mode.

 

Twitter actually breaks. Her expression, so luminously sad in her heart-shaped face, kills the main social networking platform in Westeros stone dead for five minutes.

 

Sandor?

 

For once he doesn't think it a cynical plot for judicial and audience sympathy.

 

Scooping her into a hug could make things better. His big, strong, muscled arms around her slenderness, pulling her flush to his impressively stocky torso, warming and protecting and sheltering from every tiny bit of harm that could come her way. Sansa, looking up at him tearfully before he kisses the streaks of moisture at the corners of her eyes, her lips, her forehead, before they cling once more, two lost souls in a sea of turmoil and emotion, blown together by hurricanes and tempest that-

 

Fuck’s sake. He’s going all fucking Oberyn at himself.

 

“Wolf-dogs?” Don’t concentrate on the emotional shit. Concentrate on the dog shit. Not actually that though. Not dog shit. Shit.

 

“Six. One for each of us. Rickon named his Shaggydog.”

 

“It sounds super, Sansa,” Olenna murmurs, going so far as to reach over, patting the girl’s hand. For a moment something clunks behind the old witch’s eyes, like clockwork, and she glances over to where Willas, pencil behind his ear, is meticulously cementing together layer upon layer of textured gingerbread. “I’m very excited about this, my dear.”

 

“I’ve always liked it doggy style.” Yara Greyjoy, everyone. Bringing everyone down to her level since 1975.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa being top of the adorability stakes is heavily tested when Pod gets involved. He’s wearing a t-shirt with a duck printed on it, a loaf of bread being flung towards the unfortunate fowl, with ‘DUCK!’ emblazoned above the scene in curiously festive script. Cargo shorts. Trainers with appropriately dark trainer socks because he’s that sort of man.

 

Twitter agrees, en masse, once the techs manage to CPR it back to existence, that Pod has epic calves. He’s a cuddly puppy, all desperate to please, earnest, and curiously funny. He smiles, a lot. Always smiling, always chipper, nothing ever getting him down, but with that layer of shy vulnerability that makes Varys and half of Westeros unsure if they want to shag, mother, or shag and mother at the same time.

 

“Loving the shorts, Pod.” Margaery’s glance lingers, appreciatively, upon the rugby-toned lower limbs.

 

“Thanks! It’s so warm in here, I thought I’d dress for the occasion. No idea how I’d get on with a jacket or something. Ramsay must be melting.”

 

“It’s getting hot in here,” sings Margie, laughing and charming and flirting like fuck, “so take off all your clothes.”

 

“Oh, I’d not want to put the viewers off their dinner.”

 

“I’m sure the sight of you, Pod, won’t stop people putting things in their mouths.” Yara winks.

 

The boy turns scarlet, gapes, looks at Margaery for help.

 

“Don’t you tease my Pod,” she says, protectively, like the half of Westeros who young Payne confuses. “He’s an absolute darling. You mean, naughty woman.”

 

“Margaery’s got a crush.”

 

“You would too, if you weren’t you, Yar.”

 

“Ironborn prefer blondes, Margie. Now, Pod, what magnificence have you lined up?”

 

Pod, still very red, just croaks, holds the sketch of his gingerbread sept with melted boiled sweet stained glass windows, where he spent many a happy week as a choirboy, and smiles hopefully.

 

* * *

 

“Gingerbread dragons. One black, one green, and one cream, climbing upon the Iron Throne, with myself crowned as queen in the centre.”

 

“When did this happen?” Clegane gives her a Look, but the blond lizard obsessive drifts about the tent, all long silvery hair and inappropriately gauzy clothing. Varys had to get wardrobe to put plasters over her obvious nipple flashing. She’s very New Age with her manner, dress sense, and strange love for Dothraki leather riding trousers under her floaty gowns, as if a horse might burst into the tent and need to be tamed at any moment. Given Series Six, that could actually happen.

 

“Oh, it hasn’t. Not yet. It will though - I really must introduce you to my friend Melisandre. She’s very good at visions. She’s a priestess of R’hllor, we do yoga together.”

 

Mad as a bag of geckos.

 

“Is that Melisandre who once said she was having a shadow baby with Stannis Baratheon?” someone asks off camera. Beric quirks an eyebrow at them all.

 

“Faulty pregnancy test,” Dany replies, dreamily, removing her dragons from the oven. “Do you ever think there will come a time when I could give birth to dragons? I’d love to be a dragon mummy. Think of their adorable little heads in little knitted bonnets. How cute.”

 

Yara grins. Her taste in women rivals Beric’s in men. Weird. As. Fuck.

 

“When I’m queen, Yara, would you like to rule the Iron Islands? We would be a progressive gender-blind monarchy, breaking the shackles of the oppressive male patriarchy and rising above all such petty ridiculousness. Sansa shall have the North, and Margaery the Reach. We suppose Cersei must have the Westerlands. Ashara shall have Dorne-”

 

“Technically, Dorne still has a princedom, and the heir is a woman,” Margaery points out. “I’m happy to have the Reach, though, if Willas doesn’t mind?”

 

“I’m perfectly happy with Highgarden, Margie. You go ahead.”

 

“Then the heir apparent shall have Dorne. Margaery the Reach. We shall consider the Vale and the Riverlands, though. Carefully.” Magnanimously, she bows her head. “We are a gracious queen to our loyal subjects.”

 

Olenna and Clegane, still bound in their uncomfortable truce, catch each other’s gaze. People talking in the third person is never a good sign. Infamous Series Six attests to that.

 

* * *

 

“It’s fucking close, this one.” Sandor bites into a piece of gingerbread, because otherwise Beric will hoover the rest up the greedy bugger, contemplating. “There’s four that could win Star Baker, and I’ve no bloody clue how to separate them.”

 

Willas’ is technically incredible; he’s done sculptural things with gingerbread that no one could ever consider. The cake itself is contentiously possibly slightly overdone, but the flavour is incredible. Can his artistic merit, because after all he is an architect in everyday life, and this is his thing, push him that extra mile where the gingerbread may  let him down? Out of them all, it is the smartest looking by a way. Clean, fresh lines. Perfect edges. Just divine.

 

In her own way, Walda remains technically flawless. Her skills are obvious, her enjoyment of the process definite, her innate sense of baking simply peerless. It’s all a little simple though. Some dogs, two people - one her, another a man in black with very pale skin - a few trees. All pretty and well made, tasting delicious, but compared to others, not that impressive. Sometimes more is less. In this challenge? Not true.

 

A similar figure can be found in Ramsay’s frighteningly accurate and very gory torture chamber scene. A small boy cheerfully shoves the man into the iron maiden, impaling him on well crafted sugar shards, and the red jelly oozes from a range of devices that Clegane knows, but prefers not to admit to knowing. That’d be a bit frigging weird, and the piece is fucked up as it is. Well-constructed. Nothing more than disturbing. Insanely good baking. Art installations would masturbate with excitement over the juxtaposition of gingerbread and blood, almost invoking a Hansel and Gretel for the 21st century, where the children have the last laugh.

 

Five little Stark children and their cousin with their six little puppies, all in silvers, greys and blacks, before the looming gingerbread walls of Winterfell. Sansa uses a cartoon-y style, with wide happy smiles on the faces of humans and dogs, and her own figure is topped with long bright red iced hair. Above, what can only be her parents watches indulgently over them all. Her gingerbread is very good, but perhaps a little soft, in the more northern style.

 

She’s used eggs.

 

Sandor falls in love a bit more. He fights for her, because it feels like he needs to apologise, just a little.

 

Shame about Pod. Yara’s innuendo caused him to scorch his sept roof, and it turned out quite disappointing in the end.

 

* * *

 

“We have come to our decision,” Margie trills, hands clasped before her. “I’m the lucky one who has to announce today’s Star Baker.” Everyone, including Twitter, leans forward hopefully. Pod and Sansa are holding hands. Oberyn and Willas munch gingerbread leftovers, knees touching oh so casually. Ramsay, outcast and not caring an iota, sits at the end and glares hatefully at everyone involved, while Walda nervously avoids looking anywhere near the person she’s realised, with an obvious thudding horror, is technically at this point in time almost her stepson.

 

“The judges both agreed that this was one of the closest weeks we’ve ever had on _Bake Off,_ but there can only be one winner of the coveted Star Baker title.” Pausing, milking it to the fullest, she smiles that crooked smile of hers. “His Viennese whirls were crisp and fluffy, and his technical skill with icing and geometry is second to none. Congratulations, Willas. You’re this week’s Star Baker!”

 

Willas claps a hand over his mouth, shocked, as Oberyn takes the opportunity to sneakily massage his shoulder. Quite overtly. Inside his no doubt expensive designer shirt.

 

“I just. Oh Gods. Me? Thank you so much! I am honoured!”

 

“We’ve never seen anyone precision engineering a gingerbread house before to that extent. Computer blueprints are, indeed, a first.”

 

“CAD is amazing for cakes and architecture. I can only go downhill from here.” More red-faced flailing, almost accidentally smacking Dany in the face with his arms that can only be likened to those of an overly-enthusiastic octopus.

 

“However,” Yara cuts through the congratulatory murmuring. “We do need to lose someone. Today, sadly,we’re sorry to have to say goodbye to Ashara.”

 

Clegane took this one. “Your first round went well, and you scored alright with your whirls, but bringing us a collapsed gingerbread house. You tried your best, and it wasn’t good enough.”

 

More delicate eye dabbing, lots of hugs from the rest of the competitors, and then they are down to ten.

 

* * *

 

“Sandor?”

 

Beric pulls pieces of gingerbread off each house, sampling them. Some of them are the consistency of concrete, others collapse into sticky softness that is no good to anyone, but he’s examining a lump that given the black icing and remnants of red jelly, belonged to Ramsay’s fucked-up chamber of death and sadism. The tent is quiet now, with the contestants sent off to their hotel for the evening, the crew breaking everything down, and it's just them, the remnants of the showstoppers, and peace.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This one is the best. Nicest texture and consistency, good amount of spice, it looked bloody impressive-”

 

The question is obvious. Why didn’t Ramsay, who scored well in all three rounds and did, they all agreed, make the best all-round showstopper for looks, flavour, and biscuity integrity, not win Star Baker?

 

“Shit, he couldn’t have, and you know he’s not going to win, don’t you? All this death and torture shit won’t play well with the viewers. Yeah, he’s good. He’s really fucking good. Top two or three, at the moment. But when even you have no idea if he’s taking the piss or not, he’s fucked. If it wasn’t for the decoration, he’d be Star Baker, but he can’t win with this sort of stuff. It’s going out at 8pm on a Wednesday. Apparently we’ve got to think of the family audience.”

 

The redhead dropped into the seat next to him, the ginger biscuit in his hand. “It's a shame, but I do understand. He’s hilarious, Sandor. He’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen on here.”

 

A runner scurries over with mugs of tea, and they take to dunking. Of course Olenna would be scandalised, but she’s buggered off with her handsome personal assistant for the night, leaving the rest to finish everything off.

 

“He’s going to go explode one day. Blow up and try and take the entire tent out. When that day comes, and it will because, shit, he's fucked up, you’re first in front of the carving knife.”

 

“Sandy. Sandy, Sandy, Sandy.” Beric’s expression remains ridiculously relaxed as he reaches for another piece of the torture garden. “Just because I’m very hard to kill doesn’t mean I can be stabbed on camera.”

 

“You’re the director. You’re in charge, you knobjockey. You take down the psychopaths, like you did in Series Six.”

 

“Varys wants it on film this time, if anything happens.”

 

They both shake their heads at the same time. Varys and his need for ratings.

 

“And you were nicer to Sansa.” Beric has eyes the colour of golden syrup. “Good man. Well done.”

 

“She’s lovely.”

 

“Good baker as well.” Picking up the father of Sansa’s Winterfell scene, Beric decapitates the figure with a chomp of his teeth.

 

“Makes her even better.” Sandor could never settle for someone who doesn’t understand his obsession with food and the culinary arts. He’s fought too hard, for too long, crawling his way out of the scrum of hopeful chefs and seizing his position as one of the best-known personalities in Westeros, to have it dragged down by fancying someone who doesn’t understand the need for differing temperatures to produce certain types of sugar work, or why eating raw cake batter isn’t the end of the world, or that eggs never ever should live in the ‘fridge. “She smiled at me. I mean, shit, she’s still terrified, yeah, but she smiled.”

 

“If you keep going like that, mate, you’re in.”

 

“She’s too pretty to be interested in me.”

 

A big, slightly sticky hand smacks him manfully on the shoulder. “Sandor, I love you. You’re one of my best friends, even if you deny the fact too often. I’ll look out for you. I’ll be your wingman whenever. But stop putting yourself down, alright? You’re a good bloke, with a hell of a body on you - how do you never put any weight on? I look at cake, and I-”

 

“Beric, you fucking eat the cake. You see cake, you take cake, you jam it in your face. That’s why you’re a fat bastard.”

 

There’s always fondness there, like this. A sort of brotherhood between the men that invokes actual blood ties. Gregor is a shit sibling, as evidenced by his face. It’s kind of nice having this big ginger lummox about, who takes care of the craziness of life with a certain zen that screams of a lot of therapy and a lot of that bollocks religion he’s involved in. They’ve been mates for, what, eight or nine years now? Eight or nine years of-

 

Hang on.

 

He eyes Beric, who eats the rest of Ned Stark with a certain relish.

 

“Nice body, you big gay?”

 

“Indubitably, my dear Clegane.”

 

“Fuck off with your _Sherlock_ quotes, you shit.”

 

“No, Sandor, what you mean is, ‘I’ve got a great body? No shit, Sherlock.’” A sigh, Beric reaching over and unbuttoning one more of the buttons on Sandor’s shirt. The cotton peels back, revealing dark chest hair, the hint of the apex of muscular pectorals, a pale and masculine hardness of sinew and strength that is just from Clegane arsing around with weights at home when he’s trying to think about new recipes to inflict upon the nation. Riding his ridiculously oversized horse. The occasional foray into broadsword fighting.

 

“What the fuck, Beric?”

 

The fucker grins. Grins, like some madman on a mission, which, given this is Beric, is completely likely. “I’ll get you a shirt for the next episode. Wear it, alright?”

 

“Don’t trust anything that you say or make me wear, you mad fire-worshipping ponce.”

 

“Mad fire-worshipping ponce with style.”

 

“...got to give you that.”

 

“Trust me,” Beric says. Trust him? A man whose ex-boyfriend is in prison for setting fire to a sept, who has experienced severe head injuries over several decades, and who thinks a psychopath that makes murdercakes should be winning  _ Bake Off _ ?

 

Shit.

 

“Alright.”

 

* * *

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Oberyn's penis/rainbow cookie cutter in all it's [flaccid (not so morning) glory.](https://www.amazon.co.uk/Somewhere-Rainbow-Patricks-Cookie-Cutter/dp/B00TJ47DDK)


	3. Week 3: Chocolate Bread, Dampfnudel, and the Plaited Showstopper

* * *

 

 

Sandor is a bastard when it comes to Bread Week; no wonder, because he is the King of the Loaf, the Baron of the Buns, the God Emperor of the Gluten. Bread is what he’s built his reputation on, and bread is the hill upon he will die.

 

“I can’t believe,” Beric murmurs, rubbing his face, “you’re making them cook dampfnudel. You’re a sadist, mate. Absolute bloody sadist.”

 

Of course Clegane makes them perfectly. Of course he steams the little balls of dough in his pan, making the bread soft and moist and yummy, and makes sure his bottom is completely caramelised. During the lead-up to the filming of _Great Westerosi Bake Off_ , Beric is usually to be found at Sandor’s handsome gentrified townhouse in the now fashionable suburb of Flea Bottom, being fed different types of bread in order to set the tasks for Week Three; no wonder he’s weighed himself that morning, and his BMI -  not that he takes stock in that, because Dondarrion is naturally quite muscular and stocky and tends to be overestimated, but that was during his army days so he has lost his bulk to some degree and gained flesh, but really? - is approaching that worrying 30 mark. 28.7. He’s never been over fifteen stone in his life, but this? He tries to forget that seventeen seven flashing tauntingly from the scales, and idly reaches for a biscuit to make him feel less crap about it all.

 

Right, after _Bake Off_ finishes, it’ll be healthy eating and exercise. Until next year. Then the pattern will repeat, ad nauseum. The problem of being a successful _WBC_ director is being sent all over the continents, staying in hotels that provide free breakfasts and dinners as it’s all through corporate, then snacking on location.

 

“Fat bastard.” Sandor. The voice of his inner dieting guru. The one that berates him, then tells him to go and have something nice to eat to cheer himself up.

 

Enabler. Bread-guru enabling bugger that he is.

 

“Olenna made them, and they’re amazing. But, back to the point in hand. Dampfnudel, Sandy?”

 

“It’s to see if they’ve got a natural aptitude for sensing when dough is ready.”

 

“Shirt looks nice, by the way.”

 

For a moment, Sandor looks at the floor, running his hands over the soft grey cotton. Beric, smug, matched the colour of the man’s unusually bright slate-sharp eyes with a precision that only a person who understands refraction and the play of light over dry and wet surfaces can hope to achieve. Dondarrion is, even if he is filming a reality show in a tent in the middle of the Crownlands, a bit of an artist.

 

The shirt looks more than nice. It fits tight to the broad Clegane chest, and Beric managed to convince him to keep the neck more open; chest hair and the hint of pectoral musculature, and the clean close-cut good-quality fabric, and the sleeves rolled up to elbow exposing forearms honed through years of kneading dough and hand mixing batters.

 

Over the years Beric has idly thought about his taciturn colleague. Sandor isn’t good looking; the burn is thick and drags his face down a little, turns the slashed lines of his lips into a snarl. The other side of his face is a little above average, with a strong jaw, and a determined set to his cheekbone and temple. His eyes make people stop and stare. Sandor is interesting to look at, and his voice is a low roar of a waterfall, and sure, sometimes Beric does wish that the man was interested in other men so they could hang out, be mates, then have spectacular manly sex before going to the pub and yelling at the rugby while a bit drunk.

 

Not that he fancies Sandor; that’d be weird. Just, some sex from somewhere would be nice, right? They are, in essence, good friends. The occasional stray thought towards shagging is to be expected since Beric is a) tragically single for far too long and b) Sandor does tick his weird box.

 

So does Ramsay.

 

The thought, crystalline, lingers.

 

He pauses, horrified; desperate for comfort, Beric reaches for another biscuit, crams it into his mouth whole, loses himself in sweet icing and cinnamon. He will not develop a crush on a contestant. Especially one who makes murdercakes and deathbiscuits.

 

Really tasty though.

 

He means the baking. Obviously.

 

* * *

 

“You just want me to make a lot of puns about steamy balls, don’t you?” Yara bounces on the balls of her brogued feet, grinning like a maniac. “I will go up to them and ask how their balls are doing. If they’re moist and hot. If they need me to test them. If they’re high and tight, or soft and saggy. If they’re wrinkly, I’ll have a fucking field day-”

 

Olenna sniffs delicately. “Are you always trying to make this one week Hell week, Sandor?”

 

“Sorts the men out from the boys.” They don’t understand. No one understands his affinity with bread and bread-related products. It is what Sandor does, and he’s fucked if he’ll make things easy for supposedly the best amateur bakers in the Seven Kingdoms just because he doesn’t want to look like a mean cunt with a malicious streak and a superiority complex - at least, when it comes to making bread.

 

“Poor bakers.” Margaery checks her lipstick. “It’s a horrible week, Bread Week. They’ll cry, Sandor. I’ve got so many tissues in my pockets that I look pear shaped.”

 

“If they want to fucking win _Bake Off_ , they need to sodding well be fine outside their comfort zone.”

 

“Everyone fails Bread Week.” Olenna fixes Sandor with her gimlet-gaze of disapproval. She’s the sort that will set gentler challenges, cementing her role as the nice baker on the programme. Public image matters to Mrs. Tyrell; she craves adulation, and love, and then uses it for her own cunning ends. Sandor, who doesn’t give a shit, is professional to a fault. He antagonises, he is overly-honest. He sets difficult, complex tasks because, at this level, a contestant should be able to think on the fly.

 

“Apart from Bread Lion. Bread Lion was wonderful.”

 

They pause, raising their heads to the heavens in remembrance of the one, the only, Bread Lion.”

 

“Bet you fifty dragons that Tyrion’ll make one, Cleggers.”

 

“Don’t. Call me. Cleggers.”

 

“Cleggers.”

 

“Fucking trollop-”

 

A soft cough.

 

Varys sweeps in. His suit today is heliotrope, and he has a visitor at his side. Their arms are linked, all friendly-like.

 

The stand-off is instant.

 

Olenna and Sandor stiffen, take up battle position, as that bloody fat boyfriend of Varys’ kisses them warmly on the cheeks, hugs Margaery who squeals with excitement, bumps fists with Yara, and looks far more at home in the baking tent than anyone who isn’t involved with the programme should.

 

“Heya ducks! Isn’t this marvellous? Aren’t you looking totes gorj today, Sandor? Oh my Gods, I adore that shirt!”

 

“Fucking hell.”

 

“No, babes, fucking Varys.” Hot Pie grins. He’s more popular than even Olenna these days; the housewife’s favourite. While Sandor is all hard lines and muscle, intimidation and slightly _Fifty Shades of Grey_ about the edges - he gets lots of bloody fan mail from people who want to be spanked for burning their foccacia - Hot Pie is cuddles, and fun time, and manicure evenings, and marshmallows. Clegane is convinced that the man cannot be all sunshine lollipops and rainbows. Hot Pie cannot be as sweet and fluffy as he comes across on screen. There is no way whatsoever.

 

And he isn’t. He’s more arch and prone to sharp remarks, and even camper, making Varys the butch one in their relationship. Which throws Sandor off, because Beric is sure that their producer is a power bottom, and that’d make Hot Pie the one that tops, and since…

 

Fuck’s sake. Gay shit is confusing.

 

“What’re you doing here, you fat cunt?” The almost fond term ‘fat bastard’ is reserved, completely, for Beric.

 

“Aw, ducks, aren’t you tense? Shall I give you a backrub? Especially when you’re in that divine shirt. Babes, you didn’t tell me about the divine shirt?”

 

“Ask Beric about the divine shirts, babe. He’s always wearing something tight across his shoulders, and Gods, Pie, what shoulders they are. If he were into us, I’d beg for a threesome, especially as he’s all chubby around the tum these days, but we’re not bizarre enough for dear Dondarrion, are we? Though I still think you should get that naughty piercing.” Voice dripping evil, Varys’ eyes never leave his employees; he’s feeding like a vampire on the horror of their reaction. Apart from Yara, who looks really interested in discussing what’s probably a fucking Prince Albert or something. She’s probably studded with so much body jewellery that she’s fucked at metal detectors in airports.

 

Sandor shudders at the thought.

 

Varys and Hot Pie together are a menace.

 

“Piss off, you wanker.”

 

“Always so welcoming, aren’t you, hun?” Hot Pie’s expression doesn’t change from that annoying superior warmth he exudes. “Let’s go and have a lovely cuppa, and then we can settle in to watch filming.”

 

“He’s staying?” Olenna asks. She never reacts viscerally, but the sheer arch of her eyebrows shows vast amounts of disapproval.

 

“He’s staying.” Varys considers his judges, then almost smiles. “In case he needs to understand how we film, my dears. In case he needs to take over from one of you. Which would be such a shame, wouldn’t it?”

 

“I hate the fucking prick and his obese fucking fucker of a fucking shitty second-rate wanker boyfriend,” Sandor snarls as the two men wander off, looking far too pleased with themselves.

 

“For once, Sandor, I agree.” The tilt of her jaw sharpens as Olenna prepares the stiffest of upper lips. “He really is a horrid cunt, isn’t he?”

 

“Nana!”

 

“Oh, hush Margaery, Do you even consider where your father learned his cursing from? Now go and be a dear and find me a bottle of gin, a glass, and a lemon.”

 

* * *

 

The tension is palpable in the tent, for they all know the horror that is Bread Week. For the vast majority of bakers, this is the real test; having Sandor Clegane praise their loaves is something of an obsession. Winner of Star Baker for the bread challenge has always gone on to the final of the competition, so there is all to play for as everyone shuffles into the tent, nervily, and prepares to take on the Colossus of Ciabatta that looms, in his tight-fitting shirt, smouldering with dough-related passion.

 

Several pause. Everyone stares.

 

“How are we supposed to concentrate when you stand before us wearing such a shirt, Sandor? It is most distracting. How you have hidden your lovely body? I am most upset that you have done this.”

 

“That is a lovely shirt,” Willas adds. “Is it Gucci?”

 

“Doesn’t affect me, at least. Tits aren’t big enough.”

 

“Or me. _Dracarys_ , no.”

 

“Bitches, it’s a fucking shirt."

 

“You look so amazing, Sandor! Wow! Even more handsome than Leechy!”

 

“Do they do it in other colours? Wouldn’t mind a shirt like that, but it wouldn’t fit me as nice. Do you lift? Can you give me tips?”

 

“Can we get on with the baking, please? Really, we shouldn’t be objectifying someone because they are wearing a certain style of clothing. It’s very distasteful.”

 

Cersei just hiccups.

 

Fucking hell, Beric. What has he done?

 

Sansa says nothing, but her lovely blue eyes widen, just a fraction. For once she manages to look him in the face, blushing, then to the v caused by the open neck of his shirt, before turning her attention to laying out her ingredients and recipe. She, too, is in grey; a silvery cashmere sweater with sleeves that end at her elbows, and when she reaches across the workbench, her movement exposes a tiny strip of pale perfect skin at the small of her back, or her incredible flat stomach. The handknit - she knits, it was in her application, and Clegane would kill to have something handmade by her - sits perfectly on her, makes Sansa seem this soft, cuddly thing that Sandor itches to touch.

 

The image of her with the jersey pulled to her bra-line, the concave of her belly and the slit of her naval free for his lips and hands, blazes far too bright. Supernova in his head. She has a tiny cluster of moles just above the dark waistband of her faded black jeans, and he wants to play dot-to-dot with the point of his tongue.

 

Fuck.

 

She is autumnal nights sipping hot toddies. Cinnamon Sevenmas swirls with buttercream icing. Spice, but not too much, cut through with sugar and the richness of eggs. She is simnel cake, and brioche. Tiny flecks of crystalised ginger. Demerara crunching on white teeth, aching for more of the sweetness.

 

* * *

 

As predicted, Bread Week is a cross between epic fail and chaotic panic.

 

The chocolate bread turns out...disappointing. Most of the bakers forget that the larger the loaf the more cooking time it needs, and only Tyrion, who points out he’s so small that he only needs half-man sized baked goods, gets his creation cooked all the way through. He uses lashings of Nutella and encases chunks of dark chocolate in the individual tearing breads, and, for once, he wins a challenge. Insouciant to the last, he grins, takes the victory, and surreptitiously gives the finger to Cersei who is, as usual, really drunk.

 

Chocolate liqueur bread doesn’t work, but at least it isn’t vodka this time.

 

Also predictably, dampfnudel are a bust. Walda, who is still technically better than anyone else, manages to produce a workmanlike attempt; she’s made dumplings for her Leechy before, and goes off that principle. Everyone else? Flaccid, burned, wrinkled, under-proved, limp and soggy balls.

 

Oberyn and Yara have an innuendo field day, talking in nothing but carefully-crafted filth.

 

The hopefulness of the tent gives way to despondency. Thousand yard bread-based stares. Muttered oaths. Obvious murderglares from Ramsay, who still possesses his carving knife but, now, has it impaling a tiny Sandor-shaped voodoo doll made from his spare dampfnudel dough.

 

Confidence at an all time low, and with all of the bakers at risk of being sent home, they swing into the showstopper.

 

* * *

 

“Today’s showstopper,” and Yara pauses dramatically before the weary baking troops, “is the big one. We’d like you to make a savoury bread centrepiece for a table, but with a twist. Literally. Within your creation, you must use your dough to make a plaited bread consisting of at least three strands. Secondly,” and Sandor feels the fear rising, “you must use three different flours to make your showstopper. You have four hours, bakers.”

 

As is tradition at this point, she and Margie cross their eyes and yell ‘bake!’ in strange accents.

 

Not quite as strange as Margaery’s attempt at an Andals accent when talking about dampfnudel, but pretty damned close.

 

They’re shit at accents, but try, desperately, every year.

 

* * *

 

“Oberyn?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Yara grins at her new best friend, who winks, tilts his head towards where Willas frantically manhandles his dough with a look of sheer panic.

 

“Perhaps I shall go and comfort him after I have finished kneading, yes? While my mixtures prove and swell, perhaps something else will also be rising?”

 

“Your balls were very excitable earlier, Oberyn? I’ve never seen such massive ones.”

 

“It is all in how they are handled, my sweet Yara.”

 

“You’re the expert there,” she says. They are both on the edge of hysterics. “I prefer getting my hands on some nice fresh buns.”

 

“Ah, as long as they are not too crusty?”

 

“Anyway, what’re you making for us today?”

 

He dusts off his hands, muscles shifting in his lower forearms, and Twitter swoons. There’s something about a floury Dornishman with strong massaging fingers and a glint in his eye. Especially one who, when he saw how unbuttoned Sandor’s shirt is, ended up with a half-naked torso, the hint of six pack lurking under the silk. He looks like a slightly dodgy Dornish escort, or a waiter in one of those restaurants where they play violins and give roses to pretty female diners. Still oddly classy, though. How he does that, no one knows. Genetics, probably.

 

“Today, lovely Yara, I shall be making the ancient Dornish fertility symbol. The braid, the feminine, entangles and winds about the long shaft of the masculine.”

 

“What about the other shafts and braids? Sandor takes the dough from Oberyn’s hands without a by your leave, examining the texture and the gluten release. Grunting, he pounds it several times with his own fists, before relinquishing it, almost angrily, back to the original owner. “And what flours?”

 

“One cannot just have one male and one female, yes? That is most boring. The more, the merrier. The black wheat flour I use for the main shaft, the rye for the braiding, and the spelt for the other participants.”

 

“Oh my God,” Margie whispers as they move on. “He’s making an interracial orgy. He’s making a big black cock on TV.”

 

“Good for him,” Olenna replies. “Hopefully it shall mean his attention is turned away from Willas. Willas has young ladies to concentrate upon, not a middle-aged Dornishman.”

 

Granddaughter eyes Grandmother, who drifts serenely on like some royal yacht.

 

Sandor realises, with gathering dread, that Olenna keeps glancing towards Sansa.

 

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

“When I was small, I had to bake for everyone in my family.”

 

There are approximately, according to Sandor, eleven million Freys in Westeros; every series of _The Great Westerosi Bake Off_ has had one, though thankfully Walda is rather less shit than the rest of them - especially the patriarch of the clan who took part in the Infamous Series Six.  She puts her entire and considerable weight into her kneading, the soft flesh of her upper arms jiggling, but she seems perfectly happy to be doing what she is doing. Unlike the others, she doesn’t seem to be panicking whatsoever.

 

“And now?”

 

“Just me and Roose.” Panting with the exertion, and her cheeks pink, she looks very pretty and very like a baker from an ancient fairy-tale.

 

Something explodes yet again across the other side of the tent. How Ramsay has managed to obliterate several pieces of silicone bakeware so noisily no one quite knows, but he stares bleakly at Walda and peels rubber from various sharp and angry implements. It’s a little like he’s skinning something.

 

“You’re quite quiet today, Walda,” Olenna jollies.

 

“Concentrating, sorry. It’s such a tough week for everyone, and we all want to do our best. I’m doing rye, spelt and whole grain - the different textures should be lovely! I’m making a baby basket, with a plaited handle, with a variety of stuffed breads placed inside. I’ve got goat’s cheese, sun dried tomato, herbs - “

 

Margaery squeals, leans in all hopeful. “Have you got a bun in the oven?”

 

To her right Sandor freezes, hoping for a negative.

 

“I have. I’ve not told the family, yet though, so maybe when this goes out they’ll all know.” She looks all at once thrilled, and nervous, and excited.

 

Wrong answer. Seriously wrong, bad, fucked-up.

 

Something serpentine hisses towards the bench no one really dares approach, and Walda gives a tiny cry of horror as Ramsay bares his teeth at her, white-eyed and loathing.

 

“Thanks for that. Mummy dearest.”

 

“Oh Ramsay, I’m so-!”

 

“Leave it, bitch.” Snarling.

 

He turns back to viciously punching down his dough - actually body weight behind the blows, expression white and furious as he lashes at the innocent mixture - and Walda quivers. She is, after all, a lovely woman. She’s one of those people who’re always desperate to care about others, and hate upset and anger, so seeing her almost step-son rigid with hate - more so than usual, and her own fault - Yara has to stop her going over to try and give Ramsay an ill-advised hug.

 

“Sainsbury’s,” Margie intones, gravely. The _WBC_ cannot, as it is a publically funded channel, have advertising on their screens. If someone has a crying fit, or a breakdown, or everything goes a little Infamous Series Six around the gills, she recites the names of as many supermarket and telecom companies as she can remember, wrecking the footage.

 

“This isn’t going on telly,” Yara agrees, launching into highly polished and spectacularly wide-ranging swearing.

 

“You have to agree, Sandor.” Olenna pats his arm. Her nails are like claws. “Yara is better than you at cursing. Ironborn always are, dear.”

 

It’s quite emasculating. Or would be, if Yara wasn’t as butch as Clegane.

 

* * *

 

They silently agree to leave Ramsay to the end, and move on to Tyrion, who looks utterly thrilled and nigh-on shitting himself as he struggles with the heaviness of dough.

 

“Now, Tyrion, if I’m not mistaken, that’s definitely a lion.”

 

“Of course it is. I’m a Lannister, it’s Bread Week, and, by the grace of the Seven, I will pay _homage_ to Bread Lion.”

 

The dough is under kneaded, and Sandor, twitching, fights to not say anything. He ends up walking on eggshells with himself because of this bone-deep urge to take the bread they are making, fix the mistakes, make it perfect. He never does. It means, however, that as time in the tent drags on he becomes twitchier and more irritable, grumpily destroying the hopes and dreams of the competitors with his grey-eyed stare, or his body language.

 

Back-seat baking is the worst.

 

“Plaited mane and tail. I’m just hoping it keeps the shape, otherwise it’ll be a puddle rather than a lion. That wouldn’t look very attractive on my dinner table, would it? Olives for eyes, lots of herbs. Whatever this green stuff is.”

 

“Basil.” Sandor twitches visibly. “That. Is. Basil.”

 

“Green stuff.” Cheerfully, grinning very broadly and bastardly indeed, the little shit. Varys’ influence is obvious; thankfully Clegane has never had to witness his producer, the fat boyfriend, and Tyrion all together. The carnage would be hideous. No skirt unlifted. No biting comment left unturned. They are, and he repeats himself for the umpteenth time, absolute menaces. “Using normal flour, the flour with the bits in it, and the coarse stuff that ruins my delicate hands.”

 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he growls.

 

Twitter, on tenterhooks, gasps as a collective. Sandor hasn’t exploded once this seriesl; he usually keeps his own-brand passion-driven melt-downs to Bread Week, and so far things have been unusually quiet.

 

“Of course I am, Sandy.” Grinning wider. #sandyclegane begins trending, accompanied with many lols, *giggles*, and OMG!s. In ten minutes Clegane’s Twitter page is spammed full of tweets that merely say ‘Sandy,’ over and over. Memes are formed. They feature Sebastian out of _The Little Mermaid_.

 

Someone, somewhere, mentions that Sansa can be Ariel?

 

Someone else, somewhere, says that Clegane is more The Beast from _Beauty and the Beast_ , than a mere crab. How dare they reduce Sandy Clegane to a singing crustacean? And maybe, because she’s clever, and pretty, and smart, Sansa could be Belle? Even if her hair is the wrong colour, she has more in common with a French peasant girl than a half-fish. And. anyway, how can he and Sansa have sex if one is a Beast and the other in possession of a tail?

 

Despite the dodgy themes of women as possessions, and abuse, it’s just soooo _romantic_ to think of ugly old Sandor Clegane, who has never been married or seemingly never had a girlfriend (and yes, of course, there are slashers out there who think he and Hot Pie should totally get it on, preferably while in an inflatable pool of custard), being transformed by sweet, lovely Sansa Stark?

 

There.

 

It starts.

 

The Podsa faction rise up, as one, to battle the new, dark threat from the East.

 

SanSan. They call themselves SanSan.

 

All because of Disney, a new Thing is born.

 

* * *

 

Brienne plaits with a singular efficiency that she explains is from helping her horse riding students sort their hair after lessons. The thing is impressive looking, and her strength and musculature works for her with this challenge.

 

“The flours I’m utilising are gluten-free, and low calorie. I have a friend who has chronic Coeliac Disease, and she can’t eat wheat. I’d like to showcase as many alternative recipes as I can on the programme, to make others aware that they don’t need to go without if they have allergies, or are trying to maintain healthy lifestyles.”

 

It’s going to taste like cardboard and wood paste, but even Sandor has to admire the determination.

 

“It looks quite...male?” Yara, sensing bloody, crowds near. “That’s very phallic, Brienne.”

 

“It’s a sword.” The woman’s blush could set off heat-sensitive alarms and have the fire brigade attending within the eight minute time-scale required. “I just need to attach the pommel under the crossguard. Swords are important on Tarth. They represent the fierce independence of the island under my family for many hundred years. Tarth is a crown dependency, after all, not a true part of the Seven Kingdoms - just like the Iron Islands. The plaits in the blade represent the Valyrian steel of the legendary weapons of old.”

 

“You do love swords, don’t you, dear?”

 

“Swords, horses, and Jaime.” She looks into the camera, and smiles faintly. Her scar - which they never cover up, and Sandor is pissed off about that since it’s pretty fucking ugly - glimmers under the bright lights; all pink and silver. “Heya Jaime. I hope that you’re doing okay. Please remember to feed the chickens? Especially Mabel, as she was a little broody before I came away.”

 

“So that’s why you turn up with all those eggs? From your own hens?” Brienne comes equipped with boxes and boxes of incredibly fresh, delicious eggs.

 

“Tracing the provenance of the food that we eat is incredibly important. Also,” and a faintly harassed look overtakes her, “We have eight chickens, and they each lay one egg a day. I need to get rid of them somehow.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s a dragon.” Dany sticks down scales with an egg mixture.

 

“We shouldn’t ask, should we? It’s always going to be a dragon.”

 

“They are the most noble of beasts, Yara. To soar above an army of Unsullied, to feel the roughness of hide beneath my fingertips as the ancient cities of Dragon Bay burn beneath the power of the Targaryen might.”

 

“Sounds super. Want a drink, sometime?” She’s a chancer, is Yara.

 

Daenerys straightens, all five foot nothing of her, and even Sandor quails in the noble lilac gaze. They always say that Targaryens are born, the Gods flip a coin, and they’re either stark raving mad or actually able to function. He’s not quite sure which category Dany fits into.

 

“You may take me for a curry. I would enjoy that.”

 

“Something extra spicy and hot?”

 

“Mmmmhmm. Then I shall show you my bearded lizard breeding room.”

 

If it sounds like a come-on, that’s because it is. The sparks sizzle between the two women, to the point where Beric lurks, just in case they need to be prised away from shagging on top of the dough-plaited dragon.

 

#dragonborn happens.

 

 _Skyrim_ players are very confused for a while.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t like Bread Week,” Willas admits. He is still tidy, his bench neat, but somehow a small glass of that fiery Dornish liqueur has found its way next to his ingredients. Wherever Oberyn is keeping the bottle, it hasn’t been found yet. Cersei should take a lesson from his book, and at least try and conceal her booze wherever-

 

Sandor gets a hideous, vaguely prison-style thought and shudders with horror. Smuggling. Not like that.

 

“You look as if you’re doing well though.” Margaery gives her brother an encouraging smile. “You’re always so meticulous. What are you making?"

 

“A rose. I hope. It’s all a bit. Well. Oh Gods, if it fails it’ll be the worst thing ever. It should taste really lovely though. The bottom row of petals is rye, the middle barley, and the inner oat. I thought it’d be nice to use the three main flours from the Reach to make it, and I hope I’m artistic enough to do it justice. The stem of the rose is the plaited part.”

 

“Does it have thorns?”

 

Willas squeaks as his rye mix is taken by Clegane, who prods at what seems to be an adequate dough. “No. No thorns.”

 

“A rose without thorns can still make a man bleed.” Tyrell turns at the low warm voice, gives Oberyn a shy smile. Olenna makes the sort of sucking egg noise that all irked old women do; through her teeth.

 

Twitter, however, melts. It goes on about Romeo and Julian, and star-crossed Great Houses, and whether Oberyn will top, and how it is always the quiet ones who are the most sexually deviant. Screencaps happen almost immediately, of the eye-contact; little hearts are Photoshopped in.

 

“I know a lovely young lady who would appreciate you giving her a rose, dear.” The gimlet eyes are back, fixed on her errant grandson, who swallows as if he’s been caught doing something very naughty.

 

“But everyone likes roses, Olenna. I know some men who adore them.”

 

The little power struggle/family argument is fascinating. Margaery tends to support her brother in most things, which softens Olenna’s disappointment, but then it is different when the heir seemingly doesn’t want to look at the pretty and suitable girl that is being pointed out to him and instead wants to enter some debauched gay madness with a man who has slept with half of Westeros.

 

If that’s what Willas wants. He’s the sort of man who has no idea what he truly desires until it slaps him in the face like a wet fish. Or a cock. If he’s into that sort of thing. No one really knows. Especially, it seems, Willas.

 

“I know many who love roses and other forms of beautiful flower equally,” Oberyn adds. “We should not feel tied to appreciating just one lovely bloom if, in our hearts, we wish to touch the soft petals and sniff the sweetness of many others.”

 

He pauses, tilts his head, and a strange puckish light suffuses his dark eyes.

 

“Unless you prefer flesh-eating plants. That is most singular, of course.” For some reason he looks at where Ramsay, still white-knuckled and bitching under his breath, attempts to plait something. Badly.

 

* * *

 

“Hi Sansa.” Oh shit. He’s just talked to her.

 

“Hi Sandor.”

 

It is insanely unfair that the world constricts down to just the two of them. Her skin, warmed with cashmere and physical exertion, smells lightly of yeasts and wheat, and for a man who is obsessed with bread, it is possibly the most sexually alluring thing Clegane has ever witnessed on the pulse point of a beautiful woman. Butter. There’s a creaminess, all-pervading, underlying everything else. Her hair shimmers like burnished copper, plaited and falling over her breast in honour of the showstopper, wisps falling into her eyes.

 

Sansa is a little sweaty, and pink on her cheekbones, and her breathing a little more rapid than usual, and it hits Sandor then. Like a brick, it beats his mind; this is what she looks like in bed.

 

“Uh. What you making?” His voice is wood across a metal rasp. Splintered, and torn.

 

“When I was little, and I had a Nanny, she’d make bread for us using the old recipes.” Her eyes, so blue in person and that colour can never be shown in true glory on a TV screen, manage to look straight into his. “Oatbreads, and a flatbread they cooked over open fires on stones during the old times. During the Wars of the Five Kings, it kept the Northern army fed from Winterfell to the Vale. Barley, too, though that was traditionally brewed by the brew wives into small beer. I’m making the traditional Northern centrepiece, the wolf-head of the Starks, with the base being the flatbread plaited into an edible dish. I’m using thyme and rosemary in the oatbread, and basil in the barley, for some added flavour and texture.”

 

“You know a lot about the past?”

 

She smiles. Oh fuck, she smiles, and the heavens sing, and fuck the Stranger. “My siblings always teased me that I had my head in story books about knights and maidens fair. My interest grew from that, I read history at university, and then I realised that I wanted to use my knowledge and teach children. I teach near Winterfell now, concentrating on children aged five to eleven.”

 

“Knights weren’t real. Just men with swords and a horse.”

 

“I know.” For a moment she pauses, a strange mistiness dulling her pretty gaze. “I’ve since come to realise that sometimes the people that look like the handsome prince aren’t the hero that little girls deserve, because they turn out to be the villain.”

 

Sansa, for the second week in a row, makes Twitter die. Frantically, other social media platforms are dragged in as back-up. Facebook, Tumblr, and others wonder what on earth is going on as traffic exceeds the usual expectations by an absolute shed-load. Some men proclaim that they’d be lovely to her, and they’re handsome, and they’ve never been horrible to any hot woman, and are yelled at for missing the entire point.

 

He doesn’t know how to respond to it, and the awkwardness grows, before he says the first thing that comes into his head.

 

“You alright?”

 

“Yes. I’m alright. Thank you.”

 

Sandor pauses, then holds his hand out.

 

Sansa takes it.

 

The Clegane Handshake. Never before given in Bread Week, and, as he is totally aware, is not awarded for the quality of her bread. It’s an apology for being a cunt, and Sansa knows it, and she accepts it, and that sadness melts from her face at the touch of his warm rough hand in her elegantly long-fingered doughy grasp.

 

“Looking forward to tasting you. It.”

 

As they move on, Sandor swears he heard her sigh softly and whisper something about how she likes his shirt.

 

* * *

 

“Podrick, my dear. You look singularly busy.”

 

The young man looks up, bashful as ever. “Lots to do, Mrs. Tyrell, so I don’t disappoint Mr. Clegane. He’s a taskmaster and a half!”

 

“It’s what I’m here for. What’re you making?”

 

“It’s a Stormlands recipe that I’ve had when I was over at Storm’s End for a while, working for Stannis Baratheon, and he’s seriously good at bread.”

 

“Stannis Baratheon, who won series five?”

 

“He’s such a nice man.” Stannis, who is ascetic enough to make monks seem party animals, destroyed Osha and Sam Tarly in the final with a spectacular baked alaska-style cake fashioned in the shape of a smuggler’s ship. He is the one person, in the entire history of _Bake Off_ , who aced Bread Week. Sandor doesn’t like him, but respects him. They liaise on cookbooks every so often, and secretly Clegane hopes that Baratheon usurps Hot Pie, the fat cunt, from his place as the second-best baker in Westeros. “I was his PA for a while, when he and Davos got married. He felt it wouldn’t be ethical to employ his husband as his secretary, so I went and helped for a while.”

 

“You really are a sweetheart, Pod.” Margaery steals a piece of thin-sliced ham, pops it in her mouth. “Even Stannis doesn’t think he’s nice.” 

 

“He’s passionate, and fair, and just. He’s ace. Great employer, and him and Davos are really nice together. Sometimes I wished they’d be my parents, to be honest, since mine died in a car crash when I was really young.”

 

Twitter, gasping back into life, hears that tiny sadness, and promptly dies once more.

 

“Your bread?” The dough, once more prodded by Sandor, seems workmanlike. It should rise well.

 

“Lightning bread, for the Stormlands. A plaited wholewheat lightning bolt, with clouds made of sourdough and rye.”

 

“Sounds lovely, Pod.” Margaery twirls a lock of hair between her fingers, gazing upon the cheery kindly face of Payne with a mix of predatory want and a desperate need to cuddle.

 

* * *

 

“Cersei?”

 

“Yes?” Sharply.

 

“Are you aware the water that you’ve used in your bread is actually Bacardi?”

 

She stares down her impressive nose at Olenna, and nods.

 

* * *

 

Finally. They approach Ramsay carefully, as the cloud of violent anger enveloping his work bench has darkened considerably. The Dampfnudel dough has now been fashioned into a tiny fat woman, but the impaling on his carving knife remains the same.

 

“How’re you doing, Ramsay?”

 

Murderers have kinder gazes than Bolton. “How do you think?”

 

“Well, you’ve got your three doughs, and...is that blood?” Margaery points at a small phial in plain view on the scrubbed wooden surface. To her credit, her hand doesn’t shake.

 

“No.” Exasperated. “It’s food dye.”

 

“You’re dyeing your bread?” Sandor frowns, crowds nearer, picks up the bottle. He’s never done it himself, since the beauty of a loaf needs no additional ingredients apart from the required, but now he’s intrigued.

 

Ramsay is nuts. Or he’s a performance artist. Either way, however, he’s fucked up. Sandor himself thinks the man is too good at his role to be a fake, so works on the basis that yeah, Ramsay is completely mad, and that means he takes a really outside of the box look at traditional methods and techniques. So far, it’s worked, and it’s worked well. Not to the point where he’s going to win, obviously, because this is the _WBC_ and not Channel 4, and having a psychopath triumph on a gentle baking programme is something more to be found on broadcasters who pay for their shows with adverts and don’t have to take into account the general public.

 

“Yes.” As if bread dyeing is the most obvious thing in the world. “How can I make the Red Wedding without blood.”

 

Oh shit.

 

Flashbacks to the Infamous Series Six abound. To Walder Frey. To...that.

 

Ramsay, weird eyes glittering maliciously, whistles the chorus of _The Rains of Castamere_.

 

* * *

 

To be honest, it’s lucky they manage to finish the baking, sum up, get rid of Cersei, and award Sansa Star Baker. Her bread is beautiful (like her), and light (ditto), and shot through with herbs and depth. It rivals even Stannis Baratheon himself.

 

Bread Lion is dead.

 

Long live Bread Wolf.

 

* * *

 

He and Sandor sit, slumped and exhausted, surrounded by the remains of Pentoshi take out.

 

And bread. Beric brought some back to the hotel room with him, but, for once, carefully missed out Ramsay’s black, red, and gore-smeared Red Wedding creation. The memories of the Infamous Series Six are still too fresh, still too vivid, for anyone to want to eat anything related to the madness. Of course the original Red Wedding, which is what Bolton did fashion, was even worse, but luckily for the Five Kings (especially Robb Stark)  the event wasn't caught on HD digital recording equipment.

 

Unlike the one in the Infamous Series Six.

 

He tears another handful from a showstopper. No point buying naan with the curry when you can just steal the decent creations and scoop vast mouthfuls of rice and sauce into your mouth using Bread Wolf.

 

“She’s bloody good.” Waving the wolf’s ear.

 

“She’s amazing.” Sandor’s voice still sounds too low, and husky.

 

“Baking, or other things?”

 

Shrewd understanding amber eyes meet bitter and rather embarrassed grey, and Sandor groans, slumps back on the bed with a foil carton balanced on his chest - he’s out of the shirt, in a plain black t-shirt now because Beric doesn’t want stains and getting curry out of cotton is a bitch - reaches for his beer. It’s the sort of post-shock evening that happens very rarely, apart from on every episode of Infamous Series Six, where the bone-deep exhaustion destroys everyone. Olenna’s gone back to Highgarden by helicopter with her grandchildren, proclaiming that she’s unable to stay in the Crownlands for a moment longer. Yara is determined to get laid to get the feeling out of her system via orgasms.

 

He and Sandor default to food, beer, and shit telly.

 

“You like her, don’t you?”

 

“She’s just. Fuck, Beric. I’m not supposed to want to...I don’t even fucking know! I’ve no bastard cunting idea. I want to fuck her brains out. Kiss her. Wrap her up in my arms so no one can harm a hair of her head. Take her to nice restaurants.” He pauses, haunted all of a sudden. “Take her to my own house and bake for her.”

 

“By the Seven, mate. You’ve got it bad.” Beric’s big hand finds Clegane’s ridiculously muscled thigh, pats lightly. “She’s an absolute peach, I got to admit. Pretty, clever, nice, sweet, but there’s steel backbone in there. She’s stronger than she looks, Sandy. She’s the sort that always bends, but never breaks.”

 

Beric joins him, flat on his back. He aches all over, and the pain pills he’s popped aren’t kicking in yet.

 

“Sandy?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“This isn’t going to go full Infamous Series Six on us, is it?”

 

“Bolton is going to push it, the shortarsed little psychotic fuck that he is. We got Cersei out, so that’s good. Tyrion’ll be plotting with Varys to do something. Everyone else seems alright. It’s those two we got to keep an eye on. And Walda. Daft cow. Shit, I can almost understand Ramsay getting that pissed off, but the Red Wedding?”

 

Series Six. Episode Five.  

 

They shudder, collectively, remembering the carnage.

 

“Is it wrong I still like him? He makes me laugh.”

 

“Fucked up, you ginger fat bastard. Just don’t start wanting to fuck him.”

 

“Of course I won’t,” Beric mumbles, stress eating more Bread Wolf. “Even I have some sort of want to live. He’s too short, anyway.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

“Want another shirt for the next filming day? Sansa liked it, I heard it on her mike.”

 

“...yeah. Go on.”

 

Opening two more bottles of beer, Beric offers his friend one. Drinking while flat on their backs is difficult, but they’ve got plenty of practice in over the years. Walda’s bread, with the additional cheese and meat, goes down really well with a lightly hoppy lager. Booze, bread, and some late season rugby on the telly, and by the time they’ve waded their way through the twelve pack, the platter of baking, and a full ninety minutes, the lingering horror of the Red Wedding drifts away on alcohol and gluten.

 

A sword handle remains uneaten; Sandor is right. Brienne’s showstopper does taste like wood glue and cardboard.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witness the marvel that is [Bread Lion!](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2015/08/20/00/2B801EEC00000578-0-image-m-89_1440028142886.jpg)
> 
> Am on holiday starting for tomorrow, so the next chapter may be delayed somewhat. Have fun!


	4. Week 4: Yorkshire Pudding, Lace Pancakes, and Churro

* * *

 

 

“I love Yorkshire puddings.” Beric, in his element with things that are made of batter, is pleasantly surprised with the inaugural Batter Week. It’s a new element, they’re trying to mix things up a little this series, and if that means lovely Yorkies swimming with tasty fillings, then he’s all for innovation. The bakers are to make twelve of them uniform in size and appearence, and packed full of a filling of their choice. “Where is Yorkshire, anyway?"

 

“Little bit of land near the Dreadfort. Full of inbreds and beer."

 

“Wonder if Ramsay’ll have the best ones, then? Otherwise they’ll not let him back into the North and lynch him or something, or set hounds on him, or whatever ancient thing they do to kill one of their own up there.”

 

Sandor’s shirt is black, and Beric tends towards the insufferably smug with it all. He saw how Sansa looked at Clegane with her big blue eyes - there was a touch of hero worship in her gaze. A touch of ‘take me now, big boy.’ Since he likes the girl, who is a) pretty much adorable and b) both good-looking and nice, he has decided that she is _possibly_ good enough for Sandor. After all, his best mate - not that they ever say that, because Clegane would mutter about that being a bit gay - deserves someone who appreciates him for his finer points. Not just the baking, but the loyalty, the honesty, the goodness that lies under muscle, hair, that usually hidden tattoo, and a general aura of grumpy alpha-male.

 

People don’t appreciate Sandor enough, and it irks Beric. Not to the point where he gets upset or angry, because that isn’t in his nature, but more towards the sorrowful. It’s sad, and stupid. Just because Clegane is six foot plus of hyper-masculinity doesn’t mean he has no soft side. He’s capable, and dependable, even if he does swear and complain and kvetch.

 

Once, driving down to the tent in Beric’s knackered Hi-Lux which usually contains approximately half of the world’s camera equipment at any one time, they pulled over onto the hard shoulder of the motorway to rescue an abandoned Vale Terrier who had been beaten and obviously thrown out of a car. Luckily, whoever did that was miles away since Sandor would have murdered the culprit with his bare hands, but they ended up with the dog whimpering and bleeding all over Clegane, the pick-up, the expensive technology, and by the time they got him to a vet, the pup was called Stranger and Sandor was head over heels in love.

 

Stranger, who is silvering at the muzzle and covered in scars, is not even jokingly referred to as Sandor’s son. Varys refuses to have him on set - cat person, obviously - so the handsome terrier ends up having a pet sitter come, at great expense, to pamper him while his Dad is off filming. Apart from that, the two are inseparable. Sometimes Beric feels like the stepfather, such is the time he spends with Clegane and his dog.

 

“That little shit is going to fucking explode soon.” Ramsay. Not Stranger.

 

“I know. I’ve seen it before. I’ll be on hand to calm him down.”

 

“With your cock.”

 

Beric’s tiny embarrassing crush on Ramsay is a tool in Sandor’s arsenal, the sod. Not that thinking Bolton is attractive is odd; he’s sexy in a pale-eyed, murderous, Hobbity sort of way. Short, and stockily built, with an amazing backside. Not that Dondarrion has looked. It’s just Ramsay’s jeans are tight, and he’s taken to not wearing his leather jacket as the weather warms up, and he likes fitted t-shirts with geekery all over them, and perhaps as he does have a YouTube channel since he is a professional computer gamer that Beric has watched it. Not understood whatsoever, but he’s watched every video.

 

Ramsay likes _CS:GO_ , and other violent shooting games. He’s frighteningly good at death.

 

“Not with my cock, Sandy. He’s probably very straight.”

 

“If he wasn’t...fuck’s sake, Beric. Tell me you wouldn’t? I mean, shit, your taste in men is appalling, but really?”

 

Beric, who hates blushing because he is aware he clashes with his hair, and he’s red enough in the cheeks as it is since he put the weight on, shakes his head and resorts to lying.

 

“I don’t have that much of a death wish, contrary to popular opinion. Anyway, you should be thinking about puddings, not my lack of sex life.”

 

For a moment they are at peace, drinking double-strength coffee and snacking on chocolate cereal without the milk.

 

“...this shirt okay?”

 

Beric looks up from contemplating a chocolate-covered Rice Krispie. His friend attempts to look subtle, but Sandor is about as subtle as a brick to the bollocks.

 

“It suits you. I do wish you’d wear something that isn’t monochrome though. You’d look fantastic in a very dark merlot, or a forest green. Midnight blue. Antique gold.”

 

“Black’s nice. And grey.” A faint tinge of colour traces along the unscarred cheekbone, warming Sandor’s sallow complexion.

 

“Sansa liked your last shirt,” Beric murmurs. “Stop fretting.”

 

“It’s not about Sansa!” The lie lingers, and fails spectacularly. They are both lying liars today, so it seems.

 

“I’ve never seen you with a crush before, mate. You’re allowed to have them, by the way. It’s good for you, to like someone, to feel something warm and loving.”

 

“I fucking feel it every bastard day-”

 

“Stranger isn’t human.” He smiles, understanding, all soft zen-lips and kind eyes, before straightening Sandor’s long dark hair with his freckled fingers. It tends to have a life of its own when squeaky clean, and the product needed to keep it from trying to eat things hasn’t quite been invented. “Or, he is, just not person shaped. I swear that dog understands everything that we say.”

 

“He does. He’s fucking brilliant.”

 

“Sansa has a dog.” Beric leaves it at that, watching Sandor’s eyes narrow, just a little, in thought.

 

* * *

 

Yara, the love bite at her neck not at all hidden by copious amounts of make up, is in lust.

 

“She has a dragon tattoo in a really sinful place. I’ve seen it. I’ve licked it.”

 

“Girls with dragon tattoos are dangerous, love.” Margaery holds a lipstick to the light, squints, and then looks at another. They are all shades of nude, but her standards towards personal grooming are so exacting that none of them are quite right. “Can you get Left or Right to go to Sephora and pick up something?”

 

“They’re with Olenna. She can do this insane thing with her tongue-”

 

Margie freezes, turns, stares. “Pardon?”

 

“Dany. Oh shit, not your Nan. Though looking at her, she’s saucy, isn’t she? It’s the casual dominatrix side of her.”

 

“Dany?”

 

“Olenna.”

 

A shudder from young Ms. Tyrell sends Yara sniggering evilly.

 

The scent of lilac and lavender grows, and Varys sashays into the tent. He looks vaguely thunderous, and someone - definitely not the make up girls because, damn, that’s some blending skills - has concealed dark circles under his eyes in a manner that, if you didn’t know the camp bugger, you’d never know.

 

“Varys? You don’t have any Kat von D lippies, do you?”

 

“Which one, darling?” Sandor, trying to get the coffee and chocolate from his palate with a shitload of lemon-flavoured water, wonders if they go and shop together. Have high tea. Ogle attractive men. Of course what Margie likes in her lovers and what Varys goes for is completely different, though they seem to have come to a mutual appreciation of Podrick that seems part lust and part wanting to mother. At least on Margaery’s side. He prefers not to think about what his producer might do with his boytoys.

 

“Lolita I.”

 

He snaps his fingers at the camera man, the one that replaced Theon and possesses the sort of looks that make pirates look like upstanding citizens, and Bronn rolls his eyes, slinks away.

 

“You look like shit.” Sandor is honest. He likes saying honest things, especially when it riles his producer.

 

Varys stares at him.

 

“Are you alright, V?” Margaery pats his arm.

 

“Lover’s tiff, eh, V?” Yara, glittering with the devil, steals the lipstick labelled ‘Lovesick’ and smirks at Sandor.

 

“None of your bloody business.”

 

“So it is then?”

 

A muscle twitches in the temple, and Varys swallows. “Perhaps. He is being utterly unreasonable.”

 

“But you two never argue. What’s happened?” Linking her arm in his, Margaery directs him to a chair and settles him there, going into Olenna Tyrell mode as she orders random crew to bring gin, and something sweet, and to go and find Beric wherever he is. Yara and Sandor, the cynics in the tent, watch with interest.

 

“He is completely vile, and I adore him, but right now I do not like him.”

 

“That’s men for you. Can’t live with them, and can’t live without them.”

 

Beric turns up, his sixth sense for shenanigans alerting him. He’s spattered in oil and sawdust for some unknown reason, his sleeves shoved to his elbows hastily and his red hair in disarray. “What about men?”

 

“Hot Pie’s being a twat for some reason,” Yara interjects, “though we’ve no reason given as of yet. The women fanciers are just entertained while you cock lovers get on with bitching about boys or whatever you do. Where’s your bag of sweets? Cleggers and I need sweets, and beer, and popcorn.”

 

“Did he find out about-?”

 

Varys purses his lips. “He found out, yes.”

 

Beric and Margaery both wince, leaving Sandor wondering what the actual fuck is going on, and Yara next to him, looking equally confused.

 

“Could you-?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“If you said-?”

 

“He’ll not listen. He’s gone to stay with Lemmy. Lemmy, of all bloody people.”

 

“Gays have shorthand, I swear,” Sandor mutters, stealing a toffee. “Verbal bastard shorthand.”

 

* * *

 

Between filming the judges and the presenters questioning the bakers about their challenges, everyone has the free run of the tent. Margaery drifts to her brother, naturally, and Yara to Daenerys who wields chillis like some sort of deranged dragon-obsessed ninja. Olenna disappears, ostensibly to powder her nose, but everyone knows she’s going for a cheeky gin out the back of the tent.

 

Sandor?

 

“I’ve got a dog.” It spills from Sandor’s lips, and he feels like a right dickhead as Sansa, confused, squints up at him. She’s making a Winterfell stew to serve in her Yorkshire puddings; the peelings of swede, potatoes, carrots, and other goodly hearty root vegetables neatly contained in a box. She’s always tidy with her cooking and her presentation. Sansa probably has the sort of mother who instills excellent hygienic qualities in her daughter because that’s what girls are supposed to be, do, have. In some senses, she is rather old-fashioned, is Sansa. The way she seems more deferential towards men, and embraces a certain ‘50s housewife stereotype. Sometimes, when she’s not being watched, he sees the long stem of her neck slowly relax, her shoulders settle, and a strangely beautiful fluidity overcome her limbs.

 

The moment eyes are on her, and especially male ones?

 

She seems to retreat into a sugar-spun crafted shell, which is in turn sweet and careful and desperate not to step over some sort of imaginary line.

 

“I’ve got a dog, too,” she replies. “A husky called Lady.”

 

“Mine’s a Vale Terrier. Rescued him.”

 

Something about her eyes lightens, and she smiles. A suggestion of a dimple flickers in her cheek.

 

“You’re a good man. You’ve always helped people.”

 

Sansa seems to mean that. Even if Sandor has no fucking clue what she’s on about.

 

* * *

 

“My Yorkshires are gluten free and low fat.” Brienne pokes the greyish looking batter with a rubber spatula. “Healthy eating is hugely important, for mental and physical wellbeing. I am also choosing to make a tasty vegetarian alternative to meat, but this can also be made with chicken, or even fish. The original recipe is from Astapor, which is renowned for vegetable dishes, and is quite spiced.”

 

“So,” Sandor rumbles, unimpressed as that batter is just wrong. “It’s a veggie curry in a Yorkie then?”

 

The woman’s good-natured face flushes red, but, impressively, Brienne keeps his gaze. “It is a vegetable curry in a Yorkshire.”

 

“I do like how you’re appealing to the people who find it difficult to dine out,” Margie adds, kindly.

 

Of course Yara’s mouth twitches. Of course, behind those cat’s-eye glasses she always wears her eyes gleam with amusement. Of course Oberyn, from across the tent, waits for what he knows is coming. He’s grinning, like a lunatic.

 

“I love eating out. Especially Valyrian.”

 

There it is.

 

What else is there to be said?

 

* * *

 

His fingers play along the length of the magnificent piece of meat, trailing and caressing as he measures the breadth, the heft, the very weight of the thing. Slowly, so slowly, he wraps a palm about the shaft, thumb teasing tiny circles upon the skin, before Oberyn sighs, softly. So very tenderly.

 

“I have seen none this magnificent,” he breathes. “None so perfect in shape and thickness.”

 

“It is truly astounding,” Olenna agrees, her lips parting in appreciation at what he shows her.

 

“Most Dornish ones are like this, my dear Olenna. You will find none as robust, as firm and fine as those from my own kingdom. Others? Pah! Paltry. Skinny and limp, and without such a fine colour, and texture. And the taste? A saltiness that is perhaps a little divisive, for some prefer them not as masculine, as cloying upon the tongue? I have let another,” and his gaze flickers towards Willas, who seems to be doing something vaguely alarming with a rabbit, “feast upon my length. I have turned him most ardently to the taste of Dorne.”

 

“It is quite the mouthful.”

 

“One must stretch one’s mouth to get it in, yes. It not not bite-sized.”

 

“Is it spicy, or more towards the easily palatable?”

 

“Ah, I prefer mine with a little explosion. Pizzazz.”

 

Yara can’t speak. Her hand shoved firmly in her mouth, she quietly convulses, held up by hanging onto Sandor’s arm like some sort of twitching monkey-creature. Rather like Twitter, which pauses, cup of tea to the mouth, and gapes all over itself.

 

#speechless.

 

“Did Willas like it?” Margaery asks, leaning forward, a hopefulness in her pretty face. According to backstage gossip (Beric), she’s quietly shipping her brother and the Dornishman, to the frustration of Olenna. Really, though, the bloody geriatric must see that having two good-looking men shagging each other appeals more to the _Bake Off_ market - which is basically women and gay men - rather than Sansa and Willas combined? Hot gays sell things. Or, at least, a hot gay and a slightly bumbling but cute gay. Willas isn’t, apparently, according to backstage sources (Varys) hot. He’s motherable. He’s vulnerable. He’s all big puppy eyes and hideously expensive designer jeans. Not to the extent of Pod, because Tyrell is more classically handsome, less teddy bear. Not like Oberyn who, according to backstage information (Beric and Varys), is so sexy that he could set a soggy bottom alight from a hundred yards with the power of his smirk.

 

“He loves it, Margaery. He adores getting his lips around something exotic.” A waggle of eyebrows.

 

“Fuck’s sake,” Sandor mutters under his breath, hoping the mic doesn’t pick up the swearing because Varys might kill him for ruining the innuendo-laden chatter. Time to bring this back, before they’re talking about buggery on TV. “So, chorizo and chickpea stew. Make sure you cook it long enough, as I don’t want anything hard in my mouth.”

 

...fuck’s sake.

 

Yara, twitching, can’t even move.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion, the honey badger that he is, don’t give no fucks.

 

“Well, everyone else is doing savoury, and I consider that non-U when it comes to an actual baking show. Technically, batter isn’t baking, you know?” He belabours his mixture with a hand whisk. “I am shocked and appalled, and might have to have a chat with the producer about this travesty. Oh, and what’s this?”

 

He holds up a small porcelain salt cellar, and his Yorkshire mix.

 

They look at him as if he’s grown two heads.

 

“Assault and battery.”

 

They keep looking at him.

 

“No sense of humour. I have you know that’s an hilarious joke, down our way. Also on Tarth, which is where Jamie came up with that one. Sometimes, you know, I do pity my dear sister-in-law, being married to that. Obviously, two enormous blond/e people belong together,” and even Sandor sees the punctuation in Tyrion’s speech, “and they must be doing something right as they’re sickeningly happy. They must sit in their mansion, with candles as I’m sure the island hasn’t discovered electricity yet, dreaming up awful Dad jokes. Also, Brienne?”

 

The woman looks up, eyes narrowing. “Yes?”

 

“When are you going to make me an uncle?”

 

“You’re already an uncle, Tyrion. You know we’re not having children until we’ve built up the business.”

 

“I know I’m an ‘uncle,’ dear,” and the punctuation confuses the shit out of Sandor, “but I’d like a nibling who hasn’t got my sainted sister as a parent?”

 

He and Brienne stare at each other for a very long moment indeed, before she turns back to doing whatever she was doing with her cous-cous.

 

“Perhaps if I offer them cash, they’ll breed?”

 

“They’d have such blond children.” Margaery, hearts in her eyes, manages not to stare at the industriously working Pod. “Such beautiful babies. With tiny hands. And feet. And noses. And-”

 

Various Twitter types offer to give Margie children, but are swiftly shouted down by the vastly more sensible lot who know that the babies should be from the stocky Loins of Pod rather than some weasely internet randoms with over-enthusiastic cocks who just want a go at one of the prettiest presenters in Westeros. #Podgery trends, but confuses the crafting community, who think it must be something to do with Mod-Podge, and it all gets rather messy and confusing.

 

A bit like Mod-Podge, then.

 

* * *

 

Speaking of Pod.

 

“Roast dinner. Beef, all the trimmings, bit of stuffing-”

 

“Margaery loves the idea of your stuffing, Pod. Look. She’s all a-quiver.”

 

To her credit, Margie goes with it, smiling generously though, like her Grandmother, there is that hint of ‘I will murder you later on, Yara Greyjoy, so I tell you now - do not sleep.’ She’s done her hair rather differently today, all tumbling honey brown locks pinned at the sides like some sort of medieval princess who is on the pull. The way she rests her elbows on the work bench means her impressive cleavage is just right for Pod to accidentally stare at. For a moment he’s transfixed by that lightly tanned golden flesh, all ripe like a pomegranate, before he claps a hand over his mouth, fleeing to the oven.

 

“It’s not on!”

 

“What isn’t, dear?” Margaery, neglected, straightens up. Pouts. Adjusts her top.

 

“The oven. It was, because the fat was spitting hot when I put them in, and it’s not on.”

 

From nowhere, Pod is swamped by sympathy hugs. Oberyn and Sansa get to him first, followed by Willas and Walda. Brienne, large enough to envelop everyone, sort of knots them all together in a sea of niceness, and even Dany, who no one quite expects to do so, comes and pats him gently on the bit of him she can get her hand to. Luckily for both of them, it happens to he an elbow.

 

Footsteps. No. Bootsteps. Ramsay stalks across the tent. For a moment, the unthinkable. Everyone holds their breath. Is Bolton to join in with the group hug? Tyrion, who is too cool for such shenanigans, gets a fist bump in on Pod’s arm that isn’t stuck in the general melee of cuddling, and wanders back to his bench.

 

Pale eyes consider them, glittering, before Ramsay?

 

Does something nice.

 

He puts Pod’s oven on with a sneer of pure and utter hatred, and stalks - the man seems incapable of walking. No, he stalks, and slinks, and slithers like some sort of snake - back to where he usually lives. Which is at the back of the tent, where he can cause the least trouble.

 

* * *

 

“This is a _Balerion_ , the hottest chilli in the world. I created it.”

 

Daenerys has a bench-ful of peppers, and looks horribly pleased with herself. To be perfectly honest, she tends towards the imperious and ‘better than you,’ but this time she’s really going for that ice-maiden Targaryen arrogance.

 

“You grow your own, don’t you?” They all let Yara take this one, for the TV ratings. Everything sizzles between them, like a piece of bacon on a grill pan. They‘re eye-fucking so hard.

 

“Chillies and dragons. I love hot things, Yara,” and her eyes, blazing, trail down the host’s lean body. “The flames, and the fire, and the pyre of it all. In ancient times, my ancestors felt no pain from burning. They rode the wyrms of legend, soaring above mere mortals upon scaled backs, reducing all that disobeyed them to death and ashes. Nations fell at the feet of the Targaryens. Kingdoms fell to the beating of wings, the white-silver haired conquerors of old. My dynasty is one of greatness.”

 

“They say,” and there is a teasing note in the low Greyjoy voice, “that when a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin and decide if the child will be destined for greatness, or completely barking mad.”

 

“It is why I am destined to win _Bake Off_ ,” she murmurs, forgoing the fact that she is stark-raving bonkers. “Also, my friend Mel, who teaches me yoga as well as being a Fire Priestess, says that my chili con carne is the best thing since Azor Ahai.”

 

Sandor, rolling his eyes, rolls them even harder as Quorn is mentioned.

 

Fucking chili needs fucking meat. Not some fucking meat-flavoured fucking fuck.

 

He adds an extra fuck, for good fucking measure

 

* * *

 

“That’s...a lot of blood there.”

 

Of course there is. Ramsay is involved, and if there wasn’t blood, then things would be wrong. Not disturbing in the usual sense, because he exists upon a plane of fucked-upness anyway, but disturbing in the way that they’d be waiting for the weirdness to happen, on tenterhooks, uncomfortable with it. When you’re expecting something to be seriously buggered, and it doesn’t happen, that never feels quite right.”

 

“Steak. Black pudding. Red wine.”

 

“Back to the black and red, Ramsay?” Olenna examines the young man with a critical eye. Today’s t-shirt is Warhammer. Chaos, obviously.

 

The massive black pudding link sausage rivals Oberyn’s, though runs towards the far more menacing, almost BDSM in aura. It is black, and filled with blood, while the Dornish chorizo is positively benign in ingredients.

 

“So, what are you making?”

 

The carving knife, and the edge on that thing is bloody lethal - of course - slices into the meat. Sandor, unsurprised because for all his angry stompy deathcult bastardness Ramsay can cook, notes the chuck steak is cut small enough to cook within the time, but not so tiny that it melts away to nothing but a flavouring in the wine sauce.

 

“Stewed steak with black pudding, in a red wine jus, wi-”

 

Twitter is never sure what to do with Ramsay. Part of it thinks he’s liek totes awsum because they watch his gaming videos and identify with his Angry Young Man thing. Part of it finds themselves worrying attracted to him, and desperately tries to deny that they do. The vast majority, when faced with #RamseysJus just shudders, collectively, and goes to look at pictures of baby pandas falling off things, and baby rhinos thinking that they are goats, so bleaching the horror of Ramsay and sex from their very sensible brains.

 

“I hope,” Olenna interjects, and Ramsay, hating being interrupted, gives her a death glare, “that you can keep your Yorkshire from becoming overly soggy with you using a jus.”

 

In reply he mutters something about the time Joffrey Baratheon impaled that nice Ros with a skewer to the belly on the Infamous Series Six, and they rush away, chuntering, as he stares into the camera with those weird pale-dead eyes and grins.

 

* * *

 

Sanity, thy name is Walda. She really is lovely.

 

“I thought you might be a bit hungry, as everything smells so lovely! I made you some little bite-sized nibbles, to keep you going. There’s enough for the crew, if they’d like some, as well!”

 

Twitter pauses, hoping, praying, they get a glimpse of the Mysterious Beric who they sometimes hear, but he does not appear. This week’s iteration of Dondarrion tends towards Eddie Redmayne. Given the surname, is more correct than the previous guess. Odes to the Director’s voice rise, once more. They are spectacularly awful, apart from the one that rhymes Beric and Dondarrion with Bolshevik and Epicurean. That one’s pretty good.

 

“Thank you very much, Walda.” Olenna takes a crispbread with a sliver of fresh salmon and cream cheese, dusted with chives, and digs in with the sort of beatific look that only women who love canapes cultivate.

 

“Leechy,” and she keeps her voice low, nervously glancing at Ramsay who makes a voodoo doll out of bloodied gristle and bits of black pudding, “caught the salmon himself, near in the Weeping Water! He and my family,” and she tries to keep her voice even lower but something seems to ping in the back of Bolton’s sadistic mind and he turns, marionette and stabby, to eavesdrop, “go there for a weekend every so often to fish.”

 

The carving knife again ends up embedded in a breadboard, vibrating manically, as Ramsay spits something about Daddy Dearest never inviting him to go any where.

 

“Anyway!” Perkiness comes easily to Margaery, in the most stressful of situations. “What are we making today, Walda?”

 

“My version of a salmon en croute, but using the Yorkshire pudding instead of pastry. Leechy,” and the poor woman is a fucking idiot, and needs to shut up about her bloody Leechy before Ramsay seriously kills her, "gave me the Bolton family rec-"

 

Something across the other side of the kitchen explodes. Par for the course, so everyone tactfully ignores another Bolton tantrum. For the sake of the sanity of everyone, they swiftly let Walda be. Poor ignorant cow.

 

* * *

 

“Mutton goulash, with home-grown mushrooms, lots of cayenne, and some _spätzle_ to add a different texture. It’s quite a risky idea, because of having two starch-based sides with the noodles and the Yorkshire, but I think it gives a yummy counterpoint to the goulash itself. Crisp Yorkshire, melting beef, and the soft egg dumplings - I really like this, I’ve been eating it for dinner for a week as I’ve been practicing so hard.” Willas smiles. There is a certain note of tension between his eyebrows, and the little glass of Dornish booze is firmly in place, but he seems happy enough.

 

“Quite a time-consuming recipe,” Olenna murmurs, sending her Grandson’s cheekbones hectic red.

 

“Worth it though, Nana. I mean Olenna. I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

 

“He’s cooking to please her all the fucking time, isn’t he?” Sandor lets his geriatric co-judge get on with it, Yara teasing Willas gently and getting him all flustered and flail-y.

 

“All the time. He just wants to be loved.” Margaery shrugs, all soft skin and curving breasts. “Hopefully he’ll realise Oberyn’s a little smitten, and will go and have some seriously good sex. His previous boyfriends were awful, and they never understood about the family closeness, and the last one mocked him about his leg when they broke up.”

 

“Did the cunt get punched?”

 

Margaery Tyrell is at her most beautiful when she’s radiating righteous self-satisfaction. “Loras has got quite the left hook on him, though you’d never think it. Knocked the horrid little man out, and broke his nose.”

 

“Loras? As in Tyrell?” Well, shit.

 

“A rose, when threatened, is more thorn than you’d think, Sandor - especially if the one that is threatened is our darling Willas. We tease him horribly, but he is a complete darling. At least it wasn’t Garlan who did the punching - he boxed for the army. At least Xaro’s out the way. We never liked him.”

 

* * *

 

None of them are spectacularly awful, even Brienne’s. She manages to pull it back with that really good vegetable curry, and drags herself out of what seemed to be an obvious last place. The pudding itself is a little limp, a little untextured, and not quite fluffy enough, but considering the bollocks gluten-free shit that’s usually offered, it’s something tasty for the coeliacs, intolerants, and the faddists to try.

 

Tyrion’s isn’t what they expected, but the combination of jam, cream, a very fluffy and light spice-laden sponge means the Yorkshire is the sort of mad genius that could actually win the entire thing. He brings them eleven of the creations, however, because he ate one while waiting. Understandable. They’re bloody nice.

 

Sansa is divine. As is her stew. Thick, rich and hearty, with a beautiful broth, and Sandor looks her in her beautiful blue eyes as he quickly, in succession, and without using cutlery, wolfs down two. She flushes prettily, a smile tugging at the corner of her sweet mouth, and doesn’t even look at Olenna when the Tyrell matriarch praises her lavishly for her understanding of seasoning, lightness of batter, crispness of pudding.

 

Ramsay? Great, though frightening. It turns out that he got his batter recipe off the internet, not Leechy, and, while he stares silently at the judges, they can see a slight tic twitching under his eye. For a moment Sandor waits for the coming explosion, but instead Ramsay shows his teeth in his curiously savage parody of a smile.

 

How Oberyn manages to make sexually suggestive items from nothing, no one can quite work out. If food is to be called sexy, then his is basically foodporn to the eye, and almost as much in the mouth. His speciality, more than others, is his knowledge of Dornish culture, presentation, style. It sets him in good stead for the showstopper, which is the traditional Dornish fried treat; churro.

 

It turns out that the Bolton pudding recipe is one of the greatest things the judges have ever had in their mouths, and given Olenna’s reputation as a younger woman, that’s something. There is an airiness to it, a floating quality, that means her strange salmon en croute idea actually works to a point. The fish is cooked slightly over, though, and she admits, somewhat bashfully, that she’s much better at baking than cooking, but she loves learning and experimenting all the time, so improvement will happen.

 

Podrick captures a perfect roast dinner, sends them into spasms of joy. He brings them his dozen puddings with a jug of gravy made from the meat juices, and tells Olenna, shyly, that he copies how she makes gravy because it is definitely the best way. Flattery gets him everywhere with her, and she pats his hand all grandmotherly while Margaery melts.

 

So does Twitter.

 

Indeed, the trend in shipping drifts away from Podsa towards SanSan and Podgery. After all, why ship one couple when you can make partners out of everyone. This also includes MarTyr, the Willas and Oberyn portmanteau. Some try WOb. Others try Wileryn, or Oberlas which, they soon conclude, sounds like a ski resort somewhere beyond the Wall. MarTyr happens, everyone leaps on the bandwagon, and it’s all happy lovely fluffiness.

 

Willas does well, as is to be expected, though Sandor voices his concern at pudding and noodles. Tasty though, and it looks really good, and his Yorkshires are the most uniform in shape, height, and colour. He did, after all, use a measuring spoon to carefully divide the batter out into the tin, to ensure the perfect amount, the perfect rise.

 

Olenna takes one bite of Daenerys’, and they have to take a rather long break in filming while the medical team (Beric, with a first aid box) try to coax her taste buds back to life after being obliterated with the sheer amount of heat coming from her benign-seeming chili con carne.

 

* * *

 

Lacy pancakes. Even Ramsay does a heart, but complains he’s never drawn one, let alone made one in batter.

 

Churro. Oberyn nails it. Obviously. He’s Dornish, they are a home recipe for him; he is the Churro King, and they definitely look like penises. Looking at the camera, he pops one of the crispy dough fingers between his lips, and bites.

 

Twitter, somewhere, accidentally comes in its trousers.

 

* * *

 

Yara bounces from foot to foot, full of pep and _joie de vivre_. Or sugar-laden churro. Out of them all, she adores Dany’s chocolate chilli churros. Out of all of them, she is the most brave.

 

She is definitely getting laid tonight.

 

“This week, I have the joy - the joy, people - of announcing this week’s star baker. Not only did this person create a delicious Yorkshire treat, and romance us all with the most beautiful lace pancakes, but his churro brings all the Dornes to the yard. Congratulations, Oberyn, you’re this week’s winner!”

 

She’s the first to reach her friend, hugging him matily, before she is gently removed by Willas. He raises his eyebrows and goes in for the snuggle.

 

“You did brilliantly, Oberyn.”

 

“Ah, I was merely Dornish, my sweet one.”

 

Willas blinks, all eyelashes and soft hazel eyes. “I do love Dornish things.”

 

The cuddle lingers rather longer than it should, but finally they clamber back onto their respective stools. There are three people between them, but Oberyn keeps glancing towards Willas with a strange expression; two parts lust to one part something deeper, something less carnal. Surprising, since Martell usually just wants to get his dick wet, but since most of the Tyrell family are present in the tent, perhaps he wants to hide his shagging ambition under a layer of ‘I also respect you as a person, not just a plaything.’

 

“Unfortunately,” and how Margie gets such gravitas and sadness into one word is beyond everyone, “I am the villain of tonight’s episode. We do have to lose someone, and, sadly, this week, we have to say goodbye to…”

 

A pause while the camera pans. Brienne, nervous, clutches Pod’s hand. Dany, head held high, seems uncaring.

 

“I’m sorry, Daenerys.” No wonder Yara was good cop this week; sexing someone she’s evicting from the show would really vag-block.

 

It’s understandable Dany going. Almost killing someone with your mutant and murderously hot chillies is not going to commend you to to that person, and when that person is judging you against others, it pretty much indicates that you’re totally and utterly, without doubt, buggered.

 

* * *

 

“Her dog is called Lady. She’s a husky.”

 

Beric looks up from shoving Oberyn’s churro down his neck, hiding from view on the floor between work benches. They are one of the best things he’s ever tasted, and he’s pledged that no one else will share the doughnut bounty of honey, and pistachio, and creme patissiere - hence the concealment of treat and himself. Unfortunately, the sheer tastiness of what he’s eating means he’s ruined for any other variety of sugary fried goods, and he’ll be forever chasing the ‘churro high’ he’s happily in, but sacrifices must be made. Perhaps the recipe will be made available, like several of the choice ones throughout the episode, or Sandor could make some?

 

Beric’d try, but he’s not really allowed near anything that might catch fire, such as boiling oil, or barbecue. He tends to go a little R’hllor at the seams, a tad pyromaniac. Varys insists on him attending fire safety awareness courses at least twice a year to make sure that the threat is firmly hammered home; flame pretty, death by burning is not.

 

“Maybe you and Stranger could go for a walk with Sansa and Lady?” Biting into another churro, eyes half-closing, groaning with sheer pleasure.

 

“Fuck’s sake, man. Stop looking like you’re coming your brains out because of Oberyn Martell.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

“...you’re joking, right? Shit!”

 

The expression of deep, dark disapproval on Sandor’s ravaged face means that Beric can’t keep his own expression neutrally straight.

 

“I am, Sandy. I am. Your expression was an absolute picture.”

 

“You cunt.”

 

Searching, Clegane finds a certain jumble of churro - dark and white chocolate, cinnamon sugar dusting - and settles on the floor next to his friend.

 

“Sansa’s?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

It’s adorable, if a man who is six and a half foot high and built like a brick outbuilding can be called that.

 

“Are you going to chat with her again? I think you should.” He goes to take one of Sandor’s treats, but is driven back by a low roiling growl of possession, a smack to the back of the hand. “Look, mate. You like her, and she seems to think you’re pretty bloody special. What she said, about you being a good man? Part of me wants to hug her, because she’s right. You seem to ignore the fact you’re one of the best people I know, but it’s just great someone else recognises it. Someone who is, herself, a decent person.”

 

“Did you hear what she said then? About me helping people?” Looking lost, he thunks his head back against the cabinet. “And, shit. Sometimes she looks scared about something, something I don’t see.”

 

“How she is around men?” Beric nods. He’s noticed that too, because, as director, it’s part of his job to see things. “Apart from Pod, though he’s about the same age as her brothers, and is just a bit of a puppy, so isn’t intimidating. I’ve noticed, yeah. Something’s happened, I think, with her and men. Like Stranger is with everyone apart from the people he knows, perhaps.”

 

“Like she’s expecting to be hurt.”

 

Beric catches that note, the same tone that accompanied their rescue of the terrier. Memories of man-inflicted injuries that bled everywhere, and how Sandor, raging and hating and furious, wanted to go and beat the ever-living shit out of whoever did that to something so defenceless, so innocent. He understands. He always does, but as Sandor’s friend, it is his job to keep the man on an even keel. There’s been times in Clegane’s past where he’s been unbalanced, and has lashed out, afraid and pained and angry at himself, for his own perceived weaknesses. Since they became friends, since the start of _The Great Westerosi Bake Off_ and a few months before, there have been fewer acts of violence against inanimate objects, or those who deserved it. No court dates. No suspended sentences. No being dragged through the media as this thug of a man who happens to be famous for his incredible baking skills. Just a certain level to which Sandor manages to keep, and Beric knows, and this isn’t him bigging himself up, or blowing his own trumpet, or any of that, that is down to their friendship.

 

Before Beric, Clegane had no one.

 

“Sandy-”

 

“Fucking hell, Beric.” Fury lingers.

 

He rubs a soothing, sticky palm across the man’s huge shoulders, ruining the black shirt in an affectionate moment. “If she wants to talk, then listen. Don’t push. Be there if she wants to open up to you. Sansa seems to have this idea that you’re a person she trusts, which, I think, is why she was so upset when you pulled her baking apart. Give her time, and if she wants to approach you, she will.”

 

He pauses. Sandor sighs, tension bleeding.

 

A decision is made in an instant. It is the right one for the situation.

 

“Come on. Let’s go to to the pub."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yorkshire pudding tip - to keep the fat as hot as possibly, to enable a great rise, when bringing the heated fat from the oven to pour in the batter, put the hob on. The rings will keep the fat extra hot, and mean a better pudding.
> 
> Stranger, in this instance, is a pit bull. Adora-bull that they are :)


	5. Week 5: Breakfast Pastries, Bakewell Tarts, and Amuse-bouches. Ish.

* * *

 

 

The first warm day for months finds Beric and Sandor lying in the bed of the Hilux, soaking up the rays, not really Netflix and chilling since they a) have very dodgy mobile data signals out on the arse end of the Crownlands, and b) that would involve them having sex in the back of a slightly knackered Toyota. Considering they’re quite hefty - or at least Beric is, though to be fair Sandor is a sheer rock face slab of muscle even at the worst of times so he too is quite weighty - the back axle might not stand up to the rampant pounding.

 

Also Sandor isn’t gay, and Beric’s attention moves ever more embarrassingly towards their resident psychopathic murderbaker, so there is that.

 

No, this is soft rock and basking. Far manlier.

 

This opportunity has arisen because, for the first time in seven series, Varys is AWOL. No one quite knows where he’s buggered off to, and he’s not answering the numerous voicemails Beric’s left. It’s something to do with his little spat with Hot Pie, which has morphed into a rather larger spat, and now there’s rumours of Trouble in Paradise, and Beric, who aches for gossip, wants to know everything.

 

He knows enough, what Varys intimated, but he’s the sort of man who keeps secrets; not because he’s going to reveal them at opportune times to get pay rises, or favours but because Beric is actually a really sound sort of bloke who others trust.

 

But for now, they have some well-needed down time.

 

As is his wont, Beric’s changed his jeans for cargo shorts and black sturdy army boots; for nine out of twelve months, his lower garments do not venture lower than the bottoms of his kneecaps. He’s sporting aviators, and no shirt, and they’re sharing a pair of earbuds. He’s aware that his scars are on show, but he’s never had any issue with them. The same with his stomach. Sure, the once flat and Sandoresque muscled belly is now a soft swell that consists of baking and beer, but that happens. If it eventually bothers him - and it won’t, not really, because it indicates a life being experienced - he’ll just hit the gym and cut back on eating everything he can get his hands on.

 

Clegane is similarly unclad, though rather more hairy and impressive around the pecs/six pack area. Even the moody photo shoot never quite got the solidity of the man. He isn’t one of those carved types, who primps and preens, but he’s just Sandor. Saturnine. Sometimes Beric wishes he could get the lighting crew to really accentuate the sullen magnetism of the man, shoot him how he deserves to be shot. It isn’t the _Bake Off_ ethos, however, to make judges look more glorious than the edibles. Food can be artistic, but everyone else has to appear ‘real.’

 

Sandor’s clothing for this episode includes a really smart pair of black trousers that Beric managed to persuade him to buy. They make his backside look incredible, and, as the gay best friend, Dondarrion feels it is his place to care about these sorts of things when he’s gently matchmaking a hugely famous and successful bread nerd and the pretty lemon-cake loving amateur baker who obviously adores him.

 

Beric is quietly suggesting moving towards fitted stretchy t-shirts as the weather improves and spring hits.

 

“Your taste in music is shit.”

 

“Nothing wrong with Ugly Kid Joe. Anyway, the next song is Bowie, and if you dare say anything against my Dave, I might have to divorce you from being my mate.”

 

He’s kicked, good-naturedly, Sandor snorting.

 

“Told you to get Maiden. Fuck’s sake, don’t you listen?”

 

“Yes. I did. I downloaded _Fear of the Dark_ , as you suggested, and all the others. I like Bowie better.”

 

“It’s like the late ‘80s and early ‘90s never happened for you, isn’t it?”

 

“Not enough Bowie,” Beric murmurs, eyes closing behind his sunglasses. “Have you got sun cream on?”

 

“No. Piss off.”

 

“You’ll burn. Put some on.” They have this argument every year, usually about the same time. Sandor refuses, probably for some obscure manly reason, to take precautions.

 

The innuendo echoes, and it’s Yara’s fault. Spending far too much time with her is enough to make the High Septon start seeing filth in all corners - actually, knowing Archbishop Sparrow, he probably already does, and then has to go and scourgify himself with barbed whips to stop his mind from straying from his terribly rigid religious focus.

 

For a moment Beric wonders if being whipped hurts. Probably, his head replies, affably. 

 

Sandor does as Sandor does. He doesn’t pay attention to his skin, because he’s convinced there’s no point. Moisturisers are suggested, some of the creams designed to help make scar tissue supple, and he stares at the tub and tells Beric to fuck off and stop being a fucking twatwomble.

 

“No I won’t. Fuck you, Dondarrion.” There it is. Equilibrium restored through the usual rejection of common sense.

 

Executively deciding he’s had enough of the current MP3 playlist, Sandor steals the iPod and goes searching, cranks the volume, makes the sort of evil noise that murderers in gangster films emit as their victims beg for their lives. Part - no, most -  of Beric is convinced that Clegane has a sadistic side, especially when it comes to tormenting certain tall redhaired best friends he allegedly likes.

 

That. Is really loud. The vibration is such that if he was a woman, he’d be squirming. The earbud is pulled, unceremoniously, from his head.

 

“Bloody hell, Sandor!” Deafness threatens. Instead he shoves a fingertip in his ear, tries to massage the reverberation of the sobbing drum tissue. All that happens is Beric causes a vacuum and the sodding thing hurts even more.

 

“Bruce Dickinson’s the only bloke I’d shag. I’d not let him top though. Fuck that."

 

Beric blinks, processes, tries to stop fiddling at his abused ear, and settles back down on the warm ridged metal. Even without the bud buried in the canal, he can still make out the howling of the aforementioned God of Metal screaming into Sandor’s peaceful-seeming head, wailing something about it being two minutes to midnight, and the hands that threaten doom are obviously Ramsay’s.

 

He has to stop thinking about Ramsay.

 

Seriously.

 

* * *

 

He burns.

 

Fuck Beric.

 

Gingerly, Sandor examines the redness in the Port-a-Loo mirror; his livid shoulders look sore, and he could cook naan on the heat they radiate. It hurts like a fucking bitch, fuck’s sake, and he’s going to fucking kill Beric for being right. Fuck. Dondarrion, the ginger tosspot, is probably swanning about, reassuring confused bakers that they will get to make their amuse-bouches and Bakewells, that Varys will appear at some point soon, that everything is fine.

 

_Keep calm and bake ever onward._

 

Sandor had a tea towel with that on once, that an associate - not a friend, he’s only got one friend and at the moment he’s cruising to be punched on the end of his unburned freckled enormous nose, the milky-skinned shit - gave him as a little ice breaker. He burned that tea towel for crimes against general decency while quite drunk. Panicked after remembering, finally, fire isn’t his friend. Phoned Beric, who came like some fucking ginger angel with a fire extinguisher and put the entire mess to a smoke-filled, really whisky-fuelled end.

 

Someone knocks on the door, and he swears, bangs his head on the ceiling, realises he can’t put his previously neglected and now very necessary comfortable pre-filming t-shirt on in such a confined space, almost knocks the entire moveable toilet over as he thrashes around like a pissed-off Shire horse. This, Sandor knows, is not going to be his day.

 

Finally he manages to right himself, releases the lock, and bursts from the stinking hideousness of the port-a-loo.

 

Straight into the wide-eyed perfection of Sansa.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Um.”

 

“No. Not. I’ve not. Fuck. It’s fine for you to go in there. No warning. I didn’t. Y’know. Shit.”

 

Sandor and the No Good Really Bad Fucking Shitting Awful Bollocking Wanky Day. Now he’s talking bodily functions with the girl he wants to not just shag, but bake for. He. Sandor Clegane. Wants to bake for her. Sansa Stark.

 

Fuck.

 

He’d even break out the challah, the triple-decker braided one that usually takes him a week to get the bollocks to attempt. If Sansa Stark wants challah, or biga, or anything that takes days of loving preparation, swearing, possibly being chained to an oven, she’d have whatever the bloody hells she desires.

 

Can ‘ _I want to touch you, see if you’re actually real, then feed you until you fall in love with me a bit_ ’ be a strong basis for a possible relationship? Others have been built on less. Shit, some people just get pissed and shag. Fulfilling the bread-y desires of a beautiful girl who can bake is something to aim for. Maybe he’ll bring her in something the next time they’re filming? Something attractive but elegant, like her? The treacle and oat loaf she made for Bread Week - maybe something like that? Traditional Northern, with a twist to make it prettier, less like a great lead weight of dough and sweetness?

 

Back in the present, Sandor realises he’s probably glazed over. He’s just standing there, two feet from the girl, aware of his half-naked form and the way she’s probably, due to height differences and the steps into the Port-a-Loo, at a perfect height to look straight at his ridiculously hairy chest and rather enthusiastic nipples.

 

Sansa’s eyes widen even more, like an azure-eyed doe before the sort of stag that she really shouldn’t be hanging around because he’s a right twat and cannot talk to women.

 

“I’m...you’re so red, have you burned? Are you okay?”

 

She looks relieved, conversation deflecting and Sansa’s probably thrilled she can pick on something and run, rather than remain in the cloying and stodgy silence. Anything, probably, so she doesn’t have to stare at a half-naked ugly bastard with the sort of face that looks like a melted candle.

 

She’s wearing a sundress. Yes, it’s a bastard of a day, but it is made almost not that bad at all with Sansa in a sundress. It’s green, and spotted with cream dots, and has a flared skirt that makes her look like a 1950s housewife. If, obviously, 1950s housewives were beautiful, and poised, and lovely, and not housebound drudges who spent most of their days out of their heads on Prozac to beat the mind numbing horror of being a 1950s housewife. The straps tie behind her neck, leaving her perfect, pale, unburned shoulders naked, and the urge to nuzzle and see if her flesh is as soft as it seems almost overwhelms.

 

“Merely a flesh wound.” Why the hells is he defaulting to _Monty Python?_

 

If he reached up, and tugged at the neatly tied bow that hides under waves of glowing auburn, undid the halter neck that holds the pretty dress on her prettier body-

 

“Aloe is best for that. It looks so sore. Do you need me to get you anything, Sandor?"

 

“M’good.”

 

Her slim fingers touch his arm, laying along the heavy muscle created through kneading bread, linger. It’s the first time they’ve spoken outside of the tent. It’s the first time he’s seen her without an ingredient smudged across her cheek so very adorably, without the apron wrapped about her long-legged form. Outside of the tent, in the fresh air and the warm spring sunlight, Sansa glows. Each movement sets her hair blazing into a cacophony of reds. Saffron strands, and blood orange, and the sweetest and ripest of cranberry; all combine, all sparkle.

 

“Let me help? Water? Some painkillers? I can ask to see if anyone has any cream? I’ve got hand cream, but it wouldn’t cool you down.”

 

Sansa. Hand cream. Him.

 

Fucking hells. As if.

 

“I’ll be alright, little bird.”

 

“If you need anything, I’ll be around.” Gently she rubs at his sore skin, cool hand soothing, thumb circling, before she slips away in a swish of skirts. Three steps before she pauses, looking back over her shoulder.

 

For some reason she seems to be gaping. Probably out of horror or some shit like that.

 

* * *

 

“Have you seen the chest on Clegane?” Tyrion, knees bent up under himself and enthroned upon a fallen trunk, smokes a sneaky cigarette. “Thank Gods Cersei wasn’t around, or she’d have drunkenly shagged him over the work top. She rather likes her men to be able to pick her up and throw her around, most probably so she can get pissed and not have to walk anywhere in those Louboutins she collects.”

 

“I have, indeed, seen the glory of our judge.”

 

At Tyrion’s feet, though only physically and never metaphorically, Oberyn lounges. He, too, takes advantage of the slightly unseasonable warmth and Tyrion’s expensive cigarettes, though being Dornish is far more aware of the dangers of the sun than most. He has merely unbuttoned his silk shirt, rather than going the full Clegane and just wandering about with nothing on but his trousers and dress shoes. “He is most well-built, is he not? Walnuts could crack upon his pectorals.”

 

“Why aren’t there better chests for the likes of me, Oby? Why aren’t there any dark-eyed Dwarf fetishist women from Pentos and beyond who demand to see why my nickname amongst my ex girlfriends is ‘Tripod?’

 

A murmur of interest, Martell rolling onto his stomach and grinning up at his friend.

 

There are always cliques, even in small groups. There are always those who draw others unto themselves. Tyrion is one such person. He is small, and loud, and hilarious, and people tend to adore him or think him a complete prat. Of course, underneath his brash humour and sarcasm, he’s horribly insecure and just would like a woman to love him for himself. Most are attracted by his surname, or wealth, understandably. Jaime’s told him a hundred times to stop deflecting the barbs of others and to cease the personal insults, but Tyrion just thinks it best to voice what everyone else thinks first and get potential bullies on his side with self-deprecation and humour, rather than let the disdain grow.

 

He likes Oberyn. The man is humorous, and intelligent, and drinks almost as much as Tyrion does. They go to the pub and flirt with the entire place. Davos, his favourite employee, just chuckles warmly, sends over more booze.

 

Then there’s Shae.

 

She’s Lorathi. Tall. Amazing tits. Apparently she’s a bit of a tart, but Tyrion likes a woman who isn’t afraid of her carnality. Others look at her and consider her loose, or slutty, but no. Men can screw around without reprisal, so why can’t women? This rubbish about purity is an old-fashioned way of squashing female desire, setting it below the wants of men. Men look at women who are in charge of their sexuality and think they’re automatically gagging for it. The number of times he’s kneecapped a punter with his face while drunk for trying to touch Shae without her consent is rather high.

 

He’d try and sleep with her himself, but Shae’s got a wicked left hook and wears rather pointy toed shoes. Of course, her angle of hitting would be right off compared to smacking non-Dwarves in the face, but she can get some power in her kicks.

 

She’s magnificent, is Shae.

 

“How’s it going with Willas?” He unscrews the sterling silver lid of his hip flask - a gift from Jaime for his eighteenth birthday - takes a swig, passes it over to the louche Dornishman who looks forever hopeful when booze is around.

 

“Delicately. My sweet rose is shy.” When Oberyn grins, and he grins often, he’s ridiculously gorgeous. If Tyrion were ordered, at gunpoint, to sleep with a man, it’d be a toss up between sexy Martell and the comfortable friendship and renowned oral skills of Varys. “Also closeted. Most unfortunate, but such a delightful challenge to watch him blossom.”

 

“Virgins aren’t my thing.” Stealing the flask back. “Too much like hard work. Give me someone with experience.”

 

Fingers tickle the flesh at his ankle.

 

“Not you. Are Dornishwomen as lust-driven as you are, Martell?”

 

“More so. We do not restrict our women in Dorne.” Oberyn pulls out his phone. The wallpaper is a selfie of him and Willas poking their tongues out at the camera. Martell has the sort of tongue that makes giraffes and other ungulates rather jealous. “This is my Ellaria, and our daughters.”

 

Tyrion looks at the photo, raises an eyebrow.

 

Oberyn, smugly, grins.

 

“So, how expensive are houses in Dorne? If one was to come and live amongst the gorgeous women?” He pauses, replays. “Your Ellaria?”

 

“We have a singular relationship, my Ellaria and I.”

 

“Does closeted innocent Willas know about that? That you and her are still fucking?”

 

A long tanned finger is raised, and Oberyn tilts his head. “Not quite yet. And no, we are not fucking. Sometimes we make passionate, nostalgic love, that reminds us of our youths and when we were young and beautiful. Sometimes we join the other in pleasuring partners we currently adore, writhing and worshipping in carnal acts of wonder..”

 

“You Dornes are filthy. Why don’t I live in Dorne? It sounds just my sort of place. Anyway, Willas’d run away at the sight of cunt. You’re aware that pissing off one Tyrell means pissing them all off, he’s got a brother who’s in the SAS, and Olenna is probably in the Mafia, right? She looks Mafia. Like one of those dons who doesn’t do anything themselves, but everyone else is absolutely terrified of what she might do. Choke them to death with a croissant, or insert a baguette laced with rat poison in them.”

 

“What doesn’t Willas know?” Yara drops bonelessly next to them, extra butch with her hair in a pompadour and wearing an expertly tailored men’s shirt.

 

Tyrion passes her the phone. 

 

“Shit, Oby. Why didn’t you show me your hot daughters before I started going out with Dany?” She taps the screen. “This one, I like this one. Can you send her first class through the post?”

 

“Ah, sweet Tyene. She trains to be a septa. You do delight in your blondes, do you not, my squid?”

 

“I’m not a squid. That’s Theon. I’m a kraken because I’m the masculine one.”

 

“I know,” Oberyn leers, and both stare at him. “He has the most fascinating of tattoos across his lower back. He calls it his cephalopodic tramp stamp.”

 

“Can Theon even spell cephalopod?”

 

“He does not need to. He has other, far finer, talents. Who is this Robb boy he talks of, at length, and calls the name of when he climaxes?”

 

Yara rolls her eyes, flops onto her back. She’s all hipbones and straight up and down, almost as much as Brienne. None of the roping muscles and solidity of his favourite sister in law, which is probably for the best. The world can do without two enormous Amazons wandering around, making him feel twice as short as normal. Especially on the odd occasion his beloved sister in law wears heels. Then she’s six foot seven, and basically if she demanded oral sex off him, Tyrion would be about the perfect height to just dive in and go for it.

 

“Robb’s Sansa’s brother. Go on her Instagram, he’s on there.”

 

Oberyn does as he is told, for he’s the sort of bloke who belongs to every social media site, and actually actively uses them. His Twitter feed has more followers than the Prime Minister’s. He searches, hones in, and his eyebrow arches in the same manner as Tyrion’s did.

 

“A most handsome family, these Starks. The strapping one with the blue eyes is Robb, yes?”

 

“Robb’s one of those honourable types who’d go down with the ship if he was captain.”

 

“Ah, if he were to go down on me, it would be far more pleasurable for him and I.”

 

“How’d you know him then, Tyr?” Yara shifts, decides Oberyn’s lap looks pillowy and soft, ends up with her head on his enviably long legs. Martell smiles, rather fondly, and strokes her cheek. It is oddly sibling-ish, but then even Dornish wiles won’t work on Greyjoy if a cock is attached. Or at least that Greyjoy. Theon’s pretty much up for anything.

 

“Sansa was engaged to my little shit of a nephew until last year. Joffrey. You might remember his antics on the Infamous Series Six.”

 

“Lovely Sansa and him?” To his credit, Oberyn looks appalled. “But she is a sweet girl, with such beauty, such class, and he-”

 

“Is a nasty little shit.” Tyrion nods.

 

“I have to say, Cleggers punching Joffrey in the face during bread week was possibly the highlight of my career. The way Sandor turned round when he had Margie against the cooker and was trying to get his hands up her skirt when he thought we weren’t looking, and obliterated his nose. I almost turned straight with it all.”

 

“Wasn’t long after that was broadcast that Sansa left and went back up North. Perhaps seeing her fiance trying to finger another girl on television made it finally click in her undeniably pretty yet slightly stupid head that Joffrey is the most awful, sadistic, fucked-up person I’m unfortunately related to? Considering the rest of my family includes my dear sister and my father, that’s quite the title to hold claim to. At least he’s in prison. Harassed, of course, by Margaery’s gaol-based fan club, of which there are many.”

 

“I’m waiting for it all to kick off with Ramsay and Walda. That’ll be interesting.” Yara smirks, and it suits her. Tyrion would shag her, if the occasion arose, just because it’d be hilarious fun. He’s fine with being topped by an enthusiastic lesbian with a strap-on. He’s done it before. “I’m waiting for Beric to come charging in and break it up. Beric’s gagging for some screwed-up short-arsed baker cock.”

 

“I,” Oberyn adds, “would not make love with Ramsay. I would make love with Beric. He has thighs that promise driving power, though I think he desires to bottom.”

 

“By the Seven, Martell? Someone you’d not sleep with? Yara. Hold me. I’m in shock.”

 

“One must have standards.” His eyes drift, hot-coffee and mocha, to where Willas sits with the Nice But Dims. “High, perfect cheekboned, standards.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m sure everyone knows each other, through everyone else. Isn’t it odd, that?”

 

Willas rests his elbows on the plastic garden table they’ve colonised, considering. He, Podrick, and Sansa have formed a lovely little group, and he’s just so very glad that everyone - mostly - is so wonderful. It’s an awfully big thing for him to be involved in _The Great Westerosi Bake Off,_ and having decent, super-nice people around him is something that he hoped would happen.

 

“You’ll love Podrick, he’s adorable,” Margaery told him. “And Sansa is just the sort of girl you like. Ever so sweet, and pretty.”

 

Telling his beloved little sister that the sort of girl Willas likes is the type that doesn’t try and go out with him hasn’t quite happened. Not yet. It isn’t that Willas is gay. No. Well maybe a little. Picky, perhaps, given his status. It’s just that he’s far too busy with his career, and wanting to be promoted to a senior partner at the law firm, and Stannis does drive everyone terribly hard. Romance doesn’t even enter the equation when he’s rushed off his feet for twelve hours a day, almost six days a week, and that’s without the baking practice, the wine-tasting evenings he attends to try and relax, the therapy sessions for his knee, and actually having to sleep.

 

Olenna keeps nudging him about Sansa, and Willas answers noncommittally, turning the conversation to the perfect consistency of hand-made fondant, or the egg/sugar/flour ratio in sweet pastries, or the best piping nozzles available on the market today.

 

“Like one large slightly dysfunctional family.” Pod wiggles his athletic eyebrows, and Willas smiles behind his hand.

 

Sansa sips at her bottle of water. She glances away every so often, towards Sandor Clegane, who looks horribly sunburned on the parts of him that aren’t now hidden by a t-shirt. He’s not Willas’ type; too big, rather terrifying when bakes aren’t going well. Intrusive, perhaps? His massiveness looms, like his scowl, his perfection in certain areas of baking, his admittedly impressive chest. How can the man keep his stomach slightly defined with all the bread he must eat? Doesn’t he get bloated? Perhaps he burns off the energy through being grumpy? No, he isn’t attracted to Sandor. Even when Willas isn’t actively worrying about what Clegane will say, the man still lurks in the back of his head, like a rotten pear or an off fish lingering.

 

Willas isn’t good with people. He’s mechanically and literally minded, hideously academic, loves mathematics. Angles. Precision. It makes him an excellent if not inspired baker. He does lack a certain artistic flare for decoration, but he works to overcome that rather obsessively. Design-wise he is incredible, probably the best in the whole competition, but everyone else seems to have this ability to make their baking look so wonderful, so edible. So, he worries about it. A lot. He worries, and sometimes he drinks rather too much wine, passes out, and then wakes up both guilty and worrying some more.

 

Oberyn’s little pick-me-up of Dornish liqueur really does help.

 

Oberyn’s rather smashing all over, really.

 

The other two look at him expectantly, and Willas realises, cheeks flushing, that they’ve been talking to him for the last thirty seconds and none of it has sunk in.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“It’s fine, Willas.” Sansa reaches over, pats his hand. When they first entered the tent, she seemed very skittish with most people. She’s relaxing more with him and Pod, though he’s not sure why, and she seems to be rather fond of Sandor. Which, actually, is quite odd? Surely she would be even more terrified of Clegane, like everyone else seems to be, at least in baking terms? But, then, and Willas does get this, some women like tall, muscular, intense men. Some women like shorter, slightly cuddly, serious-smiling men with impressive eyebrows. Some women, like Yara, like other women.

 

Sansa said Sandor helped her, once, though never elucidated upon that, and Willas never likes to pry.

 

Different strokes, different boats, different flavours. It’s how the world works. On a certain level, it fascinates Willas, like a scientist poking at something marvellous, and ground-breaking, but that they don’t really understand. He gets romance, and love, and sex, or, at least, the abstract behind it. He’s just never really felt it himself, towards humans, at least.

 

Towards a horse, yes, but that wasn’t a romantic thing. Willas isn’t like that. Thankfully.

 

“We were just talking about how strange it’ll be to go back to real life once this gets on telly.” Pod, Willas decides, is awfully decent. He’s dependable, and they’ve entered into a silent friendship pact of if they need some help around the kitchen - perhaps holding something while it is iced in place, or a mutual agreement about whether something is fully cooked, or general encouragement - then they pull together and get on with it. Amongst the remaining men, they are the quieter ones, the ones Willas knows, when this is shown, will be almost background contestants to the louder (Tyrion), sexually attractive (Oberyn), or just plain downright creepy (Ramsay. Ugh.) They’re more like each other than anyone else.

 

It’s the sort of association that Willas lacks. Working so hard means little time for building friendships. Loras and Renly try and bully him into going out with them, and Margie always begs him to be her plus one at smart events, and really, Willas does try so hard, but when he’s always so tired, and nervous of social interaction in case he says or does the wrong thing and embarrasses his family, it’s usually best he just stay in his little flat in King’s Landing and catch up on endless paperwork.

 

The reason he’s on _Bake Off_ is twofold. Firstly, because Olenna ordered him to take part. He’s the one person in the entire family who has skills she actually thinks worthy of showing off, and makes noises about passing the baking empire to him when she eventually retires. Secondly, it’s therapy. Get out there. Do something outside the comfort zone. Break those walls down a little, and try and be human for a while. Accusations of being a cyborg are quite often thrown at him, though Garlen does smack down the younger siblings for their loving bullying.

 

The Tyrells argue. They sulk. They yell. They are split up all over the world; Garlan had been in Qohor so long, Loras wherever Renly ends up, and Margie all over the place with her career, but at the end of everything they love each other to infinity. Even if they think that sometimes Willas is actually an AI implanted into the body of a dead person that happened to be corpsing around at the time science needed it.

 

He’s even been for a drink with Pod. A drink! With a person who is a friend! In a pub! And nothing catastrophic happened whatsoever!

 

“I’ve been putting all my bakes on Instagram,” he admits. “People will want to see them.”

 

“They’ll want to see you, Willas,” Sansa says. She’s got a very nice voice.

 

“Oh, I’m awfully boring compared to cakes.”

 

“Oberyn doesn’t think so.” Pod does that athletic thing with his eyebrows.

 

“He’s so nice.”

 

“He’s handsome,” Willas admits. For some reason Sansa and Podrick smile at each other, almost indulgently.

 

“We think he fancies you, Wil. He’s always singling you out-”

 

The Oberyn Thing, as it has become in his head, wavers. On several occasions, with their thighs pressed together, Oberyn’s hand upon his knee, or arm, or even in his hand as they wait for the results to be said, Willas feels that they do have this connexion. He’ll look at those gorgeous dark eyes, and that beautiful knowing face, and their gaze will meet, and yes, his heart does shudder in his chest at being close, molecule close, to someone as far-reaching and incredible as Oberyn Martell. He’s super-clever, and well-read. They talk about biology, horses, history. He’s the first person that Willas has ever met that feels right, in a way, as if they click together like K’Nex.

 

Willas never had LEGO as he found it far too easy. He was that sort of seven year old.

 

Other times he watches, heart skipping for another reason entirely, as Oberyn flirts endlessly with other people and, then, Willas wonders, pained until he tells himself off, that perhaps that is what Oberyn does? He flatters, and smiles, and comes on to everyone. That’s how he is. A mercurial flowing liquid that burns brighter than the sun, and if you look at him too long it blinds you to everything else.

 

“He’s like that with everyone. He flirts with all of us, not just me.”

 

“He’s been staring at you for the last five minutes.” Lights dance in Sansa’s bright blue eyes. He recognises them; Margaery looks the same when she’s trying to matchmake everyone. “He always sits next to you. He always asks how your knee is, and if you need any help with anything. He’s got nicknames for you, too. His rose, and his sweet Willas. It’s so lovely. I wish I had someone that talked about me like that.”

 

She sighs, a sadness threatening, and Willas finds her hand, squeezes, like friends do for those who are hurting. Her last boyfriend - and they all remember Infamous Series Six - was an absolute pig, and deserves to be in Harrenhal where he’s menaced daily by an apparently pissed off Gregor Clegane. Who’d have thought he’d turn out to be the president of Margie’s fan club?

 

“Definitely fancies you.” Pod nods, solemn as always.

 

“I just think he’s being nice. Look how he’s cuddling with Yara, and she’s gay.”

 

“But he’s still looking over at us. At you.” Tucking her hair back, Sansa raises her hand in Oberyn’s direction despite Willas frantically hissing at her not to. He swivels on the rather rickety chair, and gets the full force of Dornish eyes, teeth, everything, straight to the frontal lobe.

 

* * *

 

Ramsay lies flat on his back under an oak tree, a little way from the others, playing, as ever, with his phone. He’s rigged it so he’s got the best signal, and he’s taunting his YouTube followers.

 

He exists to piss people off, to make them realise he is their superior. Especially nameless twats on the internet. Hells, it makes him just about enough money to live mostly independently of Roose, and he’s the sort of famous that means he can be recognised by randoms on a bi-weekly basis. Usually whoever spots him freezes nervously, and heads the other way in horror. Like they should. He’s probably told them he’s fucked their grandmothers while shooting them in the head from his favourite sniping position. He’s probably streamed their horrified screams over Twitch and giggled to himself as he did.

 

Ramsay plays violent, angry, and downright addictive PC games for a living. He survives on the ad revenue generated by his one million plus followers on YouTube, and the occasional private chat that sees him hissing abuse at random perverts while they wank over being told he’s going to geld them with his special knife. Which Ramsay does actually own. He’s a collector of weaponry, as is to be expected, and has a page on his starkly-slick website dedicated to his stash.

 

They’ve all got names. Because Ramsay, after all, is the sort of man who names his blades.

 

The others make him itch. Look at them. All good, and nice, and perfect, with their dresses, and smiles, and perky happy lives. It’s difficult enough to tolerate them all when they’re in the tent, let alone having to have enforced jolly time. The others chat away, and laugh, and radiate this smugness that makes him want to knife something.

 

He likes seeing them nervous.

 

Especially Walda. Fat bitch. His hate for her flows, like that of the Sith, and one day the power of the Dark Side will rip her happy little life from her and destroy her. She’s about the same size as Alderaan. Ramsay just needs his own personal Death Star.

 

Upsetting his soon to be stepmother, carrying his soon to be stepsibling, will piss off the ultimate person; Roose.

 

If there’s anyone Ramsay hates more than anyone - and he hates everyone, let’s remember that, he’s that sort of person - it’s his Dad.

 

“Alright?”

 

A shadow crosses over him, and he gives whoever it is the finger. Piss off.

 

“Always so pleasant, aren’t you, mate?”

 

Oh. Dondarrion.

 

Ramsay looks up from the screen of his rooted, hacked, totally pimped out smart phone. He runs Linux on it, just because he can.

 

“What?”

 

“Just delivering the status report.” Beric smiles that crooked smile of his, drops to his knees next to Ramsay. To be perfectly honest, that’s where Dondarrion should be at all times. Kneeling suits him. Probably how he got the contract for _Bake Off_ in the first place, the enormous gay.

 

“Go on.” He feigns boredom, goes back to browsing.

 

“Varys’ll be back in about an hour, so we’re going to be able to at least get in the signature round, which is great.”

 

“Made it up with his fat chef bitch then? Who’s fucked around on who this time?”

 

“How’d you-”

 

Ramsay shakes his head, fixes Beric with a withering glare. “Don’t you read any gossip websites?”

 

“...there are gossip websites?” It’s like offering a man who is dying of thirst a glass of ice-cold water with one of those frigging awful umbrellas and a cherry on top.

 

“Are there-? Where have you been for the last fucking decade? Living under a rock?” Ramsay, appalled at the lack of net savvy, cannot stand people not utilising what’s there, before them. How can anyone get through the day without media, and games, and texting, and VOIP, and porn? How can anyone exist in a bubble where tech isn’t the be all and end all?

 

“Filming _Bake Off_.” Snarking at Beric never works. He just smiles that frustrating smile of his, and abuse rolls off his broad back. It begs the question; what would make Dondarrion break? What would it take to get under his pale freckly skin, and see what lies at the core of the big redhaired man. Fat, probably. Not that Ramsay minds that. Means there’s more person to berate. Unless it’s Walda, and then being obese becomes perfect ammo.

 

Ramsay is used to upsetting the world. He likes it. It gives him a perverse pleasure in having people pay attention to him, albeit for all the wrong reasons. Roose never bothered, saw him as a necessary evil, and his mother, well, she was a waste of space giving him to his dearest Dad and fucking off to wherever she’s gone. Playing up - acting out, as his one-time psychiatrist said - is a reaction to feeling marginalised. Craving the reaction of people, however appalled, is a thing. It explains the vast majority of internet trolls, of which Ramsay Bolton is the King.

 

Not getting a rise from Beric sets him strange. He wants to get a reaction from something, anything, and he’s taken to more sneaky routes. Since Dondarrion is as gay as a box of cross-dressing monkeys, Ramsay’s resorting to guerilla warfare. Normally he never removes his beloved leather jacket. It’s the exact replica of that worn by Han Solo in the original _Star Wars_ trilogy. Sure, Han is a rebel, but, fucking hell, he still shot first, whatever that bitch George Lucas tries to say.

 

He’s got the original films on video tape. Nothing will convince him to swap to Blu-Ray or DVD because of the ridiculous changes made by Lucasfilm over the years. Having watched the remastered edition exactly once, Ramsay ended up using the disks for shooting practice.

 

It was that traumatic. Ret-cons can piss off.

 

No. Warfare means playing dirty. It means removing leather jackets, and wearing his pulling jeans.

 

It isn’t even like Ramsay actively wants to shag Beric. He just hates feeling out of control, not having a certain power. Usually he rules with fear, and that’s awesome, but when someone doesn’t respond to intimidation and the possibility of losing body parts, then everything feels wrong, and wobbly, and wonky. Why doesn’t Dondarrion respond like everyone else? Why isn’t he worried? So, if he can’t leash the director through the usual means, he’ll do it in the other way Ramsay understands. Through sex.

 

“What’s your phone number?”

 

Beric frowns slightly. Yes! Strike one, bitches.

 

“Why?”

 

“So I can send you links to websites, you internet philistine.”

 

“Oh. Of course.” Reeling off numbers, and is that a slight uncomfortableness he spies - yes, fucking score number two! - Beric clambers back to his feet. “Right. Thanks, Ramsay, for that. I’ll look forward to reading what you send me. Don’t burn, either.” He goes to say something, probably about massaging sun cream into Ramsay’s arse or whatever fantasy lives in the man’s head, seems to think better of it, nods his good bye.

 

As Dondarrion wanders off, Ramsay goes through his victory dance. It consists of grinning, rather weirdly, and ironic Dad dancing. It works better when he’s sitting in his computer throne, but, horizontally, it’s quite relaxing.

 

Links are sent. Three or four of the more salacious gossip sites, and one or two of Ramsay’s special ones. If he’s going to trap Beric into behaving like everyone else does, and understand that he, Bolton, is the person around here who is above everyone else, a little foray into hardcore fetish porn will help. Either Dondarrion realises that Ramsay’s hardcore as fuck, and runs away screaming like a little girl or - and he’s not sure if he wants this or not because, after all, for him it isn’t a sexual thing, it’s a dominance issue - Beric gets all excited about the thought of being submissive and, well, subservience can be got that way.

 

Maybe a random blowjob. Ramsay’s up for a random blowjob if it presents itself. Not that he wants to screw Beric, but random acts of blowjob aren’t exactly full on penetrative buggery, are they?

 

He’s got about forty minutes between now and baking. Might as well get in a quick wank while he’s on the right website.

 

* * *

 

Walda thinks Brienne is wonderful. She’s so tall, and confident, and intelligent, and honourable! She’s the sort of woman that if she were in the Middle Ages she’d be a knight, even though she’s female, because that’s how Brienne is. She’s a wonderful knight in shining armour, who is just so good to everyone, and that makes her feel a little less terrified of Ramsay. Brienne will look after her, if everything goes wrong, because she’s marvellous and fearless.

 

It’s so hard, because Leechy and Ramsay don’t get on very well, and she did think Roose might have mentioned about the engagement and the baby. Of course, Walda doesn’t want to pressure her fiance into doing anything. Roose is so caring, and strong, and she does love him to tiny little pieces, but he can be secretive about certain things. His son. His job. His ex-wife being dead.

 

He didn’t mention Ramsay until they’d been dating for eight months, and quietly dissuaded her from meeting up with the boy.

 

“Ramsay is,” Roose said rather carefully, his handsome face pillowed upon Walda’s copious bosom. He loves every inch of her curves, and is so complementary about how beautiful she is. Roose calls her opulent, and lavish, and loves her dressed in velvet and jewel tones, and really, he’s so enthusiastic about her body that it could make anyone blush! The things he loves to do in bed are so naughty that Walda goes pink even thinking about it. “Ramsay is different to normal people, Walda. He’s not quite right.”

 

Which is a little understatement, but that’s Roosey all over, isn’t it?

 

So, when the short, nice-looking boy with the very singular eyes looked at her murderously - and that was before Ramsay knew who she was - it clicked instantly.

 

He looks very like Roose, with his eyes, but not as gorgeous as Leechy. Roose is taller, and leaner, and has a sort of magnificent air of nobility about him. He is Heathcliff, and Darcy, and Poldark. He’s all broody, all older man attractive. He sets hearts a-flutter wherever he goes, because he’s so yummy! The way he moves, and his stubble, and how he’s receding so cutely. His narrow smile, and his magnificent nose. Everything about him. Oh Roose - he really is the sexiest man in Westeros, and probably in Essos, too.

 

Ramsay, by contrast, is short, and angry, and looks like he wants to eat people. He’s got none of Leechy’s elegance, or humour, or charm. He’s just short, and angry, and that carving knife worries her so much. The way he stabs everything with it. His baking is terrifying. Walda hears that lovely Beric Dondarrion talking about deathbiscuits and murdercakes with amusement in his voice, but sometimes she worries no one else takes the threat of Ramsay seriously.

 

Brienne understands. She has Cersei as a sister-in-law, and that horrible boy Joffrey as a nephew. They both stand out as women who perhaps aren’t pretty like society says they’re supposed to be, but found wonderful handsome husbands despite their being different.

 

Even Walda, who knows Roose is the best looking man ever, thinks Jaime Lannister is seriously hot.

 

“How’re you feeling?” Brienne brings some of that nice ginger tea that helps Walda settle her stomach. The baby keeps squirming about, starting to become active at eighteen weeks, and even though she’s passed the morning sickness stage, she still feels quite peculiar with it all.

 

“Ooh, not bad thanks!” She pats the grass next to her, and her friend settles. Brienne’s drinking one of her green smoothie things. Walda tasted it, once, and is now very aware of what liquified grass is like. “Little Leechy is asleep for a little bit, since I’m not cooking. I think he knows when I am cooking, and then up he gets, wanting attention!”

 

“It’s a boy?” How Brienne folds up like that is really impressive. Apparently she loves doing yoga, and it helps with her chakras. Whatever they are, and it sounded a bit naughty to Walda, who giggled. She giggles quite often. Apparently it can be a nervous tic.

 

“We don’t know yet, we’re getting the scan in a few weeks as Roosey wants to know so we can have the nursery set up. We’re thinking of having a farm yard theme, but I really love the idea of a Hobbit one?” She finds herself unwillingly looking at where Ramsay lies, radiating loathing, that lovely Beric who is quite dishy really, and if she didn’t have Leechy she’d have lovely daydreams about his legs which are very strong and very muscular, standing over him. “Ramsay likes _The Hobbit_ …”

 

Even though the boy terrifies her - and Walda is aware even as she calls her almost stepson ‘the boy’ that Ramsay is actually older than her - she would just like everyone to be happy, and a family, for when the little one is born. How wonderful would it for the baby to have a big brother who loves him? Maybe the marvellous event of having a sibling might make Ramsay a little less frightening? After all, who doesn’t love babies? Everyone loves babies! Perhaps the moment the boy holds the newborn, he’ll realise that there’s someone shiny and bright who needs a brother to look out for him, help him through the scariness of the world?

 

After all, Ramsay is so lovely to puppies, and babies are just human puppies, so perhaps-?

 

“Walda,” and Brienne sounds very kind, like always, “you can’t try and mend something when he hates you like he does. It might just make things worse?”

 

“But I just want everyone to be happy, and not so angry-”

 

“I know.” She smiles her warm, generous smile. Brienne is amazing. She’s a sort of role model for women who want to be strong, and capable. Walda wants to be just like her. Or Yara. So confident and independent. “But sometimes families can’t be stuck back together, no matter how willing some of them are. Jaime’s lot are just so screwed up that we have to look after ourselves and not worry about the rest of them. In the end, even though I know you want the best for everyone, you have to look after yourself and the baby.”

 

“And Roose.”

 

Brienne hesitates for a moment, and Walda doesn’t know why. “And Roose, yes.”

 

“Just, wouldn’t the world be a far nicer place if people just hugged and were decent to each other?”

 

“Please don’t try and give Ramsay a hug?”

 

Walda shakes her head, eyes wide. “I think he’d stab me with the carving knife! No, I’m not that silly, even though I think he could do with a hug. Maybe,” and something dawns, clarifies, “maybe one off Roose? To show him that his Dad loves him?”

 

“As long as he doesn’t stab him in the back with his knife,” Brienne adds.

 

* * *

 

His phone vibrates, and Beric fishes the device from his pocket. The text message is terse, doesn’t say who it’s from, but is obvious from the list of shortened website links - how do you even do that, that really is serious witchcraft - that it contains the promised gossip columns from Ramsay.

 

Opening the top one, he scrolls through, fascinated.

 

Stops dead.

 

Swears very softly under his breath.

 

“Sandy? Mate?”

 

“What?” Clegane’s face first in a veritable bucket of coffee and trying not to look at Sansa who, in turn, is studiously avoiding looking at him. In another circumstance Beric would rejoice in the cuteness, and wonder what colour suit to wear to the wedding he idly plans for five years after they get together, move in, and Stranger will be the ring bearer, but no. This is just-

 

Well, in the words of Sandor, this is a ‘fuck’s sake’ situation.

 

“Ramsay sent me some links to a few gossip websites. No, don’t roll your eyes, I can hear you.”

 

“Who’s shagging who? Are that boy band having that orgy you’re so desperate to fantasise about, or shit?”

 

“Prime Order,” Beric adds, lacking the usual tartness kept for certain Clegane-uttered inanities because he’s feeling the world swept from under his feet, “aren’t, for once, my focus.”

 

“Apart from that one with the fucking stupid hair and tattoos.”

 

“Sandor. Please. Shut up about Harry and look at this.”

 

Beric hates being sharp with people. He’s a ‘please can you do this, thanks,’ sort of man, which works surprisingly well as a director. Most of his fellows scream and roar, dominate proceedings, throw their weights around like dictators of the lens. Dondarrion, in contrast, asks nicely, requests sensibly. He understands those he films, and how they work - their psyches. Dealing with someone like Olenna contrasts heavily with a person like Cersei. They end up doing what he needs them to, but not because he bullies. Beric, after all, is the sort of man who could possibly lead a revolution if pressed, but in a nice Robin Hood sort of way.

 

He drops the phone into Sandor’s hand.

 

“Is the...what the actual fucking hells is this fucking bollocks?!”

 

“You took the words out of my mouth.”

 

Photos. Varys, drinking what looks like a grande latte with all the works, chatting with a tall, well-built man wearing a very smart suit.

 

That would be perfectly benign if the person - tall, silvering hair pulled into an unironic ponytail, of a certain breadth that indicates a previous outdoors lifestyle gone slightly to fat and Beric identifies completely, the really nice clothing worn with battered hiking boots - wasn’t Mance Rayder.

 

That Mance Rayder.

 

The brand new and shiny Head of Light Entertainment for the rival channel. Above their pixelated heads, the article title screams, “ _Is Mance Rayding Bake Off for Channel 4?_ ”

 

He’s still a pin-up of wilderness junkies and  survivalists everywhere. _Mance Rayder: Survival_ ran for ten series, proved to be Channel 4’s most popular reality show; the mild-tempered Wilding from beyond the Wall, the King of outdoor pursuits. The broadcaster’s propensity for nakedness and programmes about sex means plummeting viewing figures in certain key areas i.e. the 8pm slot on a Wednesday evening where whatever they put on against _Bake Off_ loses the ratings battle. No wonder a man who has an managed to build an empire based on drinking his own urine on television is eyeing other successful brands to poach.

 

Because that is the only reason Varys is having coffee with Mance Rayder. There can be no other explanation.

 

“That the Seven hells is Varys doing, Sandor?” Confirmation is needed that Beric isn’t the only one who sees this.

 

Clegane stares at the phone, sightless, his lips curling back from his teeth.

 

“Whoring us the fuck out, with it fucking being fucking contract fucking year. Fuck!”

 

This raises questions.

 

A conversation has been had before, the last time contracts were up for renewal.

 

Beric works for the _WBC_ , despite concentrating most of his time on _The Great Westerosi Bake Off._ He is contracted, owned, enslaved, by the oldest broadcasting corporation in the entire world, and he’s always liked it that way. After all, despite being involved in a modern-day phenomenon, he craves something more fulfilling. Nature programming. Going undercover. Something greater than gentle reality programming at its finest. Having links with a broadcaster, rather than just a production company, means that he has, at least, some sort of choice.

 

He’s always said that if _Bake Off_ leaves the _WBC_ , then he’ll not be following. Why jeopardise a career that may blossom into something more, one that promises a wide spread of different tastes like tapas, rather than break ties to remain with just one programme?

 

Sandor has always said that if Beric goes, he goes. No question. Clegane has no loyalty to Varys, or even the show, but he and Dondarrion?

 

Friends don’t abandon each other. They’re a Brotherhood. If it means they’re under a different banner to the _Bake Off_ one, then that is what’ll happen. It isn’t as if Sandor will be out of a job. The _WBC_ would probably throw his own show at him in gratitude for not leaving them in the lurch.

 

* * *

 

Varys returns, but Sandor doesn’t really pay any attention to him whatsoever. Cunt.

 

He finds it difficult to care about baking, for once; the rolling thunder in his head of Varys prostituting out the programme to the highest bidder growls in his ear, turns him extra terse, extra snarling. The company that makes Bake Off is Varys’ creation, his spawn, and he will do as he will with whatever is produced. He has, after all, the power of life and death over them all. The rest of them have no input, no say. If their producer says they are moving channels, there’s fuck-all that can be done.

 

If there’s anything that Clegane hates more than anything else, it is feeling impotent. Usually he wades in, verbally or physically deals with a situation. This, however, is like nothing else he’s ever experienced in his life. Helplessness drives him towards an edge he thought he and Beric pulled him back from years before.

 

Sandor crashes into the tent, mood foul and all-encompassing. He takes no prisoners. His anger, outwardly directed, gets thrown at the bakers.

 

Willas cries. Ramsay, sensing a challenge, leans in, leers at them all, pale eyes glittering pure evil, fucking well goes on about shit that happened in the last ficking series, and Clegane almost backhands him with one of Tyrion’s frankly terrifying caramelised onion and goat’s cheese danishes.

 

Sansa, quietly and seeming a little glazed over in the face of rampant ire but trying not to show she's affected, just bakes. Sometimes she pauses, looks at Sandor, and he hallucinates that she’s worrying about him or some soppy shit like that. As fucking if. The world’s quietly collapsing around his ears, because despite all evidence the the contrary he has the capacity to really love _Bake Off_ , and he feels betrayed despite everything he’s fucking done for Varys - not for himself, but for Beric, who deserves better, and the crew who’ll be out of a secure job role if they stick with the _WBC_ \- and as if some gorgeous stunning perfect redhead with the softest of smiles and those lovely eyes could have some sort of feeling for him apart from rampant pity.

 

The others keep their heads down, try not to draw attention.

 

Shit. It’s all shit.

 

The mood in the tent deflates faster than an undercooked cheese souffle.

 

Pod’s Bakewell tart ends up too warm to ice, and he stares, mournfully, as Sandor rips him apart on camera.

 

Twitter, mostly quiet throughout the episode because this is unlike anything that has gone before, even Infamous Series Six, rises like a gas-bubble in a lava cake. No one hurts Pod. Not even Sandor Clegane in tight trousers.

 

Tyrion can’t be arsed. The little fucker probably is in on whatever Varys is trying to pull, since they’re off sucking each other’s pricks or some shit, and he grins - grins! - through every disaster he presents. It’s as if he wants off the show as quick as possible. Like that bald cunt with the fucking purple fetish stuck him in the show for some bastard reason, most likely to fuck his drunk whore of a sister-in-law the fuck off, and now he’s making a run for it.

 

There’s a reason why Oberyn won’t even speak to Sandor, disdain dripping from his pores, and it involves quietly whimpering Tyrells who dab at their huge swimming hazel eyes like fucking maidens in bloody distress and, yeah, perhaps Sandor feels a little guilty about this, but he’s angry. When he’s angry, and pissed off, he gets into the sort of destructive mood that tends to be thrown at the nearest people so he doesn’t turn it inward and wreck himself.

 

Half-way through, a large hand grabs him by the shoulder, and Beric tries to say something, but for the first time ever - and this is shit, because this is Beric’s livelihood that’s being ripped from the big gay’s hands, and Sandor will hurt anyone who does anything against his friend - he shrugs Dondarrion off, stamps away to drink more coffee, ends up needing to piss when he’s trying to judge, which makes him even more acidic, and the entire episode sinks, screaming, into some terrible abyss, consumed by the ire of Sandor Clegane.

 

Tyrion seems perfectly pleased to be leaving. He shakes hands, kisses the ladies and Oberyn, and promises he’ll see them all again next week. No one quite understands what he’s on about, but it obviously has something to do with the conniving poof with the fat chef fetish.

 

Walda, because she’s actually still fucking good at baking, even when sanity crashes around them, is Star Baker. She smiles, warily, as if she’s not quite sure what’s actually going on, the daft mare.

 

Sandor fixes them with his hurting/violent grey-eyed stare once more before fleeing.

 

Twitter, stunned and silent, marinates in their own juices.

 

Then. Someone, somewhere, mentions the Infamous Series Six.

 

It starts.

 

It grows.

 

They agree that this might just be a kernel, a tiny thing, and perhaps it will not expand into something as hellishly car-crash and fascinating as the Infamous Series Six. No one has tried to kill someone by pouring hot custard over their head yet, at least, and that’s usually seen as the benchmark for programmes these days. If someone goes beyond Drogo having his milk-product angry moment at Viserys Targaryen, then it’s officially collapsing into proper madness.

 

#InfamousSeries7 is shot down. Infamous can’t be used for two series. That’s just lazy.

 

If it all ends up with Sandor breaking someone’s face again, then it will be crowned, according to Twitter, as #ScandalousSeriesSeven.

 

The alliteration gives Twitter a grammar erection. This includes Stannis Baratheon, who graces the social media network with his presence for the second time in just under a year. He thinks the triteness of alliteration rather shocking, but begrudgingly endorses it as other alternatives are far too hideous to contemplate.

 

* * *

 

“Sandor?”

 

“Piss off.”

 

The anger. It burns out faster than a trainee sous chef in the kitchen of Gordon Ramsey, leaving Clegane limper than soaked gelatin; he curls on the floor, where Sansa always bakes, a massive pile of muscle, and regret. Every muscle aches. His head pounds with sky-high blood pressure. He feels like shit, inside and out.

 

The usual hand rubs his shoulder, and Beric settles next to him.

 

“Made you a brew. It’s decaf.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Silently but not uncomfortably they sip their tea, nibble at the bakes. Sandor finds Sansa’s offerings, which are pretty decent, and Beric, as usual, locates Ramsay’s.

 

“He’s sent me hard-core porn.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Ramsay.” The corner of Dondarrion’s mouth tugs, a fond gleam in those honey-golden eyes of his. “He snuck it in with the gossip websites.”

 

His mug halfway to his mouth, Sandor just shakes his head. “Fuck’s sake. Shit, and I want to know what sort, but it’ll be screwed up, won’t it?”

 

“Hardcore BDSM. Are you surprised? I’m not.”

 

“You’re the twat who wants to shag him.”

 

“Just because I find him fascinating, and interesting, and I’m still sure he’s an actor, doesn’t mean I want to sleep with him. Much.”

 

Sandor bites into filo pastry, capers and salmon fresh and sharp on his tongue. They’re decent, if slightly soggy because of the filling, but Sansa made them. That’s important.

 

He’s aware of Beric watching him.

 

“You alright, mate?” The tenderness of his friend’s voice makes Sandor almost need to weep. He doesn’t deserve Dondarrion. None of them do. Especially fucking Varys.

 

“Been better. Shit. I’m...fucking sorry. I just lost it, with - your job. It’s your livelihood, and that chubby-chasing cocksucker wants to fucking take it away.”

 

Their shoulders bump. Beric’s hand reaches up, pushes Sandor’s hair out of his angry/exhausted, make-up stained face, before encouraging him to lean. Dondarrion’s one of very few people who’re allowed to touch him without warning, and that’s only because they basically live in each other’s pockets for so many months a year. Even outside of filming they’re often having dinner, or drinking beer, or just hanging out together. Sometimes he wonders if Beric is lonely like him, and that’s the reason for their friendship, but Dondarrion knows three million people, at a conservative estimate, and is a popular bugger. He’s likeable.

 

“Sandy-”

 

“I know. I can fucking hear you thinking it, you wanker.”

 

“Thank you. Even if you’ve had what basically is a temper tantrum, thanks mate. For thinking about the crew, and me.”

 

“S’alright. Just going to brood over the fucking bollocks that’s happening, and try and piss off Varys.”

 

Beric chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “And how’re you going to do that?"

 

“Salt the lands, drive his boyfriends before me, mock the lamentations of his women.”

 

“Without going _Conan the Barbarian_?” Carefully, because they are quite crumbly and whoever the fucking hells makes baklava black anyway? Oh, yeah. Murderbaker Extraordinaire, Beric takes a piece from the heavy slate upon which it sits. It’s decent. Sandor has to admit that. Not enough honey though. His teeth neglected to stick together.

 

An idea, a tiny proto-universe of one at least, tries to Big Bang in his head.

 

“Tell him to fuck his job and shove it up his copious arse. Let’s see him try and take the show to Mance fucking Rayder without what makes the show. The presenters. The crew. The tent-” Sandor curls his lip, his grin singularly unpleasant.

 

R’hllor’s a fucking weird religion. None better, though, than a fire worshipper when bridges - and tents - need to burn.

 

“Not yet, Sandor. Even if-” and the yearning in Beric’s voice, the filthy pyromaniac, blazes. “Let’s just see if he is selling everything from under us, first, okay? They might be old friends meeting for a drink, or perhaps they’re talking about a commission for Channel 4? Maybe we’re jumping the gun by thinking we’re being sold out?”

 

“Fuck’s sake. Fine.”

 

“Good boy. Eat your amuse-bouches and drink your tea. We’ll deal with catastrophe if and when it happens, right?”

 

Beric smiles in that zen manner of his, reaches across, plants a kiss on Sandor’s forehead that backfires when he ends up covered in face powder, foundation, and general sweaty Clegane-ness.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enormous chapter is enormous.


	6. Week 6: Citrus Meringue Pie, Fougasse, and a Three Tiered Floral Cake

* * *

 

 

Beric considers the meringue. Wantonly.

 

The meringue looks back. Worriedly.

 

It has the requisite perfect browned crust - Sandor prefers using an oven over blowtorching as, understandably, flames and him don’t really mix terribly well - and a crunchy sweetness that means Beric quietly sneaks bits off it when Clegane’s otherwise engaged. Inside, the slight softness melts beautifully, and, for the fifth time this week, he wonders if proposing marriage to a man because of the quality of his baking is a bit too strange.

 

Not that Sandor’d say yes. However big their bromance, Beric’s aware neither of them would look great in a wedding dress.

 

Ramsay in a dr-

 

Stop that.

 

No. Ramsay in a dress would possibly cause the end of the universe as they know it. The resulting temper tantrum might tilt Planetos even more off the wonky axis upon which it meanders boredly through the stars. It might cause the seas to boil, and the swamp creatures to rise from Moat Cailin, and the Others to climb the remnants of the Wall to see what’s going down in modern Westeros.

 

He surreptitiously breaks another bit of crisp goodness from the meringue crown, pops it on his tongue, makes a noise a little too near an actual orgasm, but does Beric care? Of course he doesn’t. There’s sweetness, and the sharp suggestion of lime coulis, and a dash, just a dash, of rum in there. Enough to send a heat across the back of his throat, to warm the palate, to cut through citrus and sugar to give a whole new dimension.

 

“Fucking hell, Beric. That’s the third one you’ve shoved your greedy fucking face in this week.”

 

“Come and stop me before I actually die again, Sandy. It’s so good."

 

“You don’t need a bloke. You need a personal fucking chef.”

 

Beric chuckles.

 

Sandor glowers, removes the platter upon which the now desecrated dessert nestles, bears it away to the High Shelf.

 

They’re only about two inches apart height-wise, but it makes a difference. If there is something Beric shouldn’t get his nose into - usually sugary, bread-y, or, leftovers from a curry the night before that Sandor hoards to eat for the breakfast he usually spends snarling insults at the international news coverage on the more right-wing of TV satellite stations while mainlining coffee between naan bites and swearing at the entirety of the Fox network - he removes it with an eerily sadistic look on his face and puts it on the High Shelf. It’s just a narrow ledge in a more inaccessible part of Clegane’s kitchen, cunningly too narrow for a chair to be shoved in so he can go back to stealing food, but it is of a perfect height for Beric to realise that sometimes size is really bloody important.

 

“Can’t I just eat that?”

 

“No. You’re going on a fucking diet.”

 

“Ah, we’ve reached that time again.”

 

Every year, come episode six, Sandor declares that Beric’s obsession is getting out of hand. And yes, perhaps it is. It’s just so addictive, being around all the beautiful, tasty, wonderful treats that are whipped up. It isn’t like smoking, or booze, where a person can go cold turkey. No, food addiction is more akin to death, which is also something Beric’s had quite a lot of personal experience at. You can’t not eat. You can’t not die. You can try and cut back on both, sure, but eventually you just need to have a little nibble at a sandwich, or take an extremely dangerous directing job in Essos where you end up shot again, because frankly you’re a bit of a junkie for food and thrill-seeking. If you can’t have one (food) then you end up doing stupid things like falling off cliffs while hiking treacherous terrain, or sleeping with Thoros. Again.

 

“We both know it isn’t a diet, since I’m perfectly happy with my body.”

 

Sandor, the muscle-riddled idiot who keeps himself from weight gain through sheer bloody mindedness - gives him a Look.

 

“I’m going towards bear-dom. It’s comfortable. We have beer and twinks.” A thought. “Do I have to have twinks?”

 

“Ramsay fucking Bolton is no twink.”

 

“Good. No twinks. I’d break them.”

 

Sandor slaps his hand. Beric wonders why for a second before realising that he’s trying to unwrap the Emergency Mars Bar that lives in the fridge door.

 

“Drop.”

 

Beric does. The Tone Does That. Sandor scoops up the chocolate bar, carries it to the High Shelf. Places it next to the meringue.

 

The authority. Clegane would be a bloody incredible Dom if he was into that sort of thing. However, despite the height, the build, the snarling, the low rumbling voice, the general aura of pissed-off grumpiness, all Sandor wants is a nice girl to accept him as he is.

 

Beric’s just quietly pondering the BDSM websites that Ramsay sent - which are quite fascinating, to be honest. Beric has seen several before but these are really rather more intense than your normal ones. Rather instructive in the nefarious uses of baking equipment - when someone hammers at the front door.

 

Sandor freezes, before almost racing to answer. He never moves as quickly as he does in these moments.

 

“Has he been a good boy?”

 

“He’s been fucking ace, Mr. Clegane. He always is.”  Their - Beric sighs at himself, for sometimes he does think of himself as Stranger’s other Dad - dog-walker has a thick Skagos accent, and swears more than Sandor. Even if he is, what? Fourteen?

 

“Need you to dogsit this weekend, Rick.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Clegane. Fucking awesome. Shireen alright to come over?”

 

“No shagging on the settee.”

 

“What about you and Beric’s bed?” Sniggering. Rickon’s a shit. A great kid now he’s back on the straight and narrow, attending a boarding school for the more ‘difficult’ of pupils in King’s Landing, but a sod and a half. The girlfriend is far classier than the scruffy northerner, but since she’s Stannis Baratheon’s darling little girl, the pride and joy of Davos’ indulgent eye, of course she is. She’s also the reason Rickon is their care provider; Sandor’s scars never threw the boy, and when they met her they realised why.

 

“Piss off, you cunt.”

 

“Piss off yourself, you big scarred fucker.” Red Keep Academy does not teach Rickon any manners, but then he had none to begin with. He’s wild. Feral, really. No wonder they had him transferred from the island to the city. Great with Stranger though, and the dog-walking and pet sitting looks good on his college applications when he eventually gets old enough to apply for Veterinary Sciences at KLU.

 

“Hope you’re being nice to my sister, Sandy, otherwise I’ll gut you like a fish.”

 

“Don’t fucking call me Sandy. Your sister?” Confusion runs riot in Clegane’s voice.

 

“Sansa. She’s had a fucking shit time, and I’ll tear the throat out of cunts who hurt her. With my teeth,” Rickon adds, unnecessarily.

 

“Right. Piss off, you teenage twat.” The fondness there is obvious, lingering as Rickon swears his good byes.

 

The door closes, and Sandor meanders back in with Stranger’s lead in his hand; the terrier trots to the earthenware water bowl, drinks about a gallon of water, heaves himself onto the settee with a sigh, and drools all over Beric’s knee.

 

“Fuck. Everyone is related.”

 

“...it’s almost like someone’s plotted all these intersecting points, isn’t it? I feel like a graph.”

 

Sandor stares at Beric’s gut. “Fucking pie chart, more like.”

 

Stranger gives another of his world-weary sighs, snuggles into Beric demanding fuss, and then does one of those lethal Vale terrier farts that sets them both speechless for the foreseeable future.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion, as good as his promise the previous week, turns up with Varys. “You can’t keep a good Lannister down, can you?”

 

“Darling, are there even any good Lannisters still alive these days?” snipes the producer, rather amused.

 

“I’m possibly the best, but I’m horribly biased. You love me though, V. I am, after all, your favourite person in a sea of ex-boyfriends and random sex partners.”

 

“If only you were homosexual, T, we’d be golden, would we not?”

 

Flirting. Varys flirting with an ex-contestant _cum_ good friend, looking perfectly poised and controlled, even as the show collapses about their ears. Beric gently informed Margie and Yara about Mance Rayder, and Margie told Olenna, and Olenna, apparently, said something sweetly about testicles and removing them, before burying her face into another gin and tonic as she settled in for some patented Machinations and Tyrell Devilry.

 

Sandor suppresses a want to punch the fucker in his smug round hairless face, and fuck the fucking consequences. Fuck.

 

The Voice of Reason a.k.a. Beric said they needed evidence, and perhaps everything wasn’t quite as it seemed in regards to Mance Rayder and the possible (probable) move to Channel 4? Perhaps there was a perfectly innocent explanation for Varys to be having a chummy chat and a nice coffee with danishes. As they poured over the photo spread on that shitty gossip blog Beric’s now obsessed with Sandor noticed the pastries looked over-baked and dry to his discerning, cynical eye. Perhaps they discussed other projects? After all, _Bake Off_ isn’t the only pie in which Varys has a controlling finger, and there Clegane’s head leaps towards fingers, hands, Hot Pies, and he fights back a certain disgust.

 

According to those in the know (Beric, font of knowledge since his new found understanding of technology and how the internet works) Varys’ company produces programming scattered across most channels, terrestrial and satellite, in Westeros and Essos, and that is why he is obscenely rich. Hot Pie’s career, it seems, is Varys’ doing. The fat bastard started as a mere pastry chef in a restaurant that Varys ate at quite regularly, then Varys ate something else quite regularly, and now no one can move for Hot Pie book deals, TV shows, double decker bus advertising, branded bakeware; all things designed to rub in Clegane’s face that he has competition for the best baker in Westeros.

 

Which he is. The fat knobjockey is a fucking arsebandit and fucking fucks shit up. Cunt.

 

“How’s Hot Pie?” Acidly. Yara lounges as is her wont, her eyes even sharper than usual. She’s the sort of woman who can stay silent to a certain point, and then murders whoever pisses her off. She especially murders people who upset her squiddy little brother, who she adores and also wants to kill on a daily basis. Theon attracts people who aren’t really very good for him. If he was camera-manning this series, he’d have fucked Oberyn again, and would be trying to get it on with Ramsay who is, apparently, very much his type.

 

There are apparently two people in the world who’d think Bolton attractive, and both of them are stark raving mad; Beric because of his head injuries, and Theon because his cock doesn’t discriminate between good sex and possible gelding.

 

“A bitch, darling, an absolute bitch.”

 

“Should stop sleeping with other people, V-” Tyrion wriggles his eyebrows, though less athletically than Pod can.

 

“He doesn’t usually mind, but-”

 

“It’s quite-

 

“I know, but-”

 

“You’re an arsehole, you-”

 

“Quite, T. Quite. Takes one to know-”

 

Fucking hell. Tyrion speaks shorthand gay like a pro.

 

Yara flicks Clegane a Look.

 

If given the choice of who to take into a fight with him, out of everyone on the show, there would be a few likely candidates. Bronn the cameraman looks like he fights seriously dirty. Beric, because what else is a friend for if not to punch shit with. Oberyn does martial arts, but cocking someone into submission might work. Brienne, though she’d be too fucking honourable.

 

Yara, though, tops that chart. She means business. There are very few people that Sandor knows could fuck him up. His brother, safely stowed away at Harrenhal. Sansa Stark, for other reasons entirely. Sansa could ruin him not with violence but with a touch, making him fall into a pit of desolation and heartbreak. None, though, would destroy him like Yara. She’s short, and strong, and she packs a hell of a punch, but she’s also got the language skills to tear someone down. Every little flaw she notices, stores up, ready to unleash when required. She could sarcastically mock a man to death. Seriously.

 

The miasma of tension drapes about them all like the itchest of woollen blankets.

 

No one is quite sure of how to approach Varys in regards Channel 4, but the rest of the crew know who will be doing it. They voted on it, and everything, while not mentioning the democratic process to the person that they chose to broach the subject.

 

What else is Beric for if he’s not there to throw at their producer every so often when things get a bit dodgy?

 

* * *

 

The signature dish of the week; citrus meringue pie.

 

Of course Sansa makes lemon. It is fluffy, and light, and a little overly-sweet, and Sandor finds his fillings singing the tortured song of their people, but he nods at her, burns as the light sparks in those brilliant blue pupils.

 

“A little sweet, but a magnificent firmness on top. Lovely peaks, and wonderful on the tongue.”

 

Olenna pats the girl’s hand while Clegane wonders if the old bint is talking about the pie or Sansa herself. She - Sansa, not Olenna, because otherwise everyone in the tent would be hugely distressed - displays a tasteful hint of cleavage in her neatly fitting dove grey blouse. She’s doing that ‘50s thing again, with high-waisted jeans snug on her hips, her arse, and Gods, her arse is a divine thing from the fevered dreams of a sculptor, and little flat shoes that Margaery goes into raptures over. They have emoji kitten faces on the toes.

 

Can a man die because of someone being so fucking perfect that it just slaughters him where they stands?

 

She’s adorable. Beautiful. Cute as fuck. Dresses in a manner that’s classy but flattering. Her hair is a sonnet on its own. Shit. Sandor would sit down and scratch out some shit poetry just to describe the pale inner softnesses of her wrists, or the dip of her collar bone, or the way Sansa bites the plump fleshiness of her lip when she concentrates.

 

She’s the last to be judged for the signature challenge, and while everyone else files from the tent so the cleanup crew can get in and hose down certain disaster areas - Brienne’s having a complete ‘mare, poor cow, which since Clegane actually likes the woman who is sensible and capable and does sword fighting, is hugely disappointing - they linger as if they both want to.

 

“Bit less sugar next time.” His voice chips at his toes, so very low, and he manages to look her in the eyes. It’s more difficult when it’s just him and Sansa. With others around he can stare, do that patented Sandor Clegane baking glare that reduces lesser contestants to a whimpering pile of pulp, because it’s expected.

 

“I slipped a little with the measuring.” Her smile flits, a little sweet bird. Sansa sings when she bakes, and it melts him like pastry that’s been put in the oven too warm.

 

“Yeah. Uh. Sansa?”

 

“Yes?”

 

_A drink. Just ask her out for a fucking drink, you cowardly cunt._

 

He’s been wondering if he should just come out with that for a while. If he were someone else, someone with a modicum of coolness like Oberyn Martell, or general relaxed cheer like Beric, or even Varys’ (cunt fucker twatface fuckmongoose) ability to crook a little finger and be inundated with desperate gays or whatever happens, this would be a piece of piss. A cake walk. If he was someone apart from Sandor Clegane, they’d have probably fucked-

 

No. Sansa isn’t like that.

 

She’s fragile and strong, with her secrets, and her expression that sometimes seems to remember a something that sends her mouth sad and soft. When that strikes, and it does, because, fuck it, Sandor watches her 90% of the time, he fights this urge to swoop in, grumble at her, tease another emotion. If he was a smooth bastard, he’d stride over, wrap his arms around her slim long body, and tell her that it’s all good, he’ll punch whatever’s upsetting her in the face just like he smashed Joffrey bloody Baratheon’s nose to King’s Landing and back.

 

Maybe it’s something to do with being in the same tent that saw the Joff-related parts of Infamous Series Six? Maybe it brings back the horror of watching your boyfriend do something so heinous?

 

“Was just wonderin’ that...if you-. Shit. Uh.” He pauses, tries to gather his thoughts, realises he can’t say the words he wants to, makes something up on the fly. “Next time use golden sugar, better texture in the meringue. It’ll give it a decent colour as well, with the caramelisation with the baking.”

 

Bottled it. He’s a coward. An absolute arsehole.

 

“Oh.” A tiny voice. “Oh. That’s a good idea. Thank you.”

 

“Just. Y’know. Want you doing alright, y’know?”

 

He doesn’t just mean the baking. Sandor means life, the universe, and everything, whatever Douglas Adams said. Articulating that, though. Saying to this pretty girl who he wants to bake for for the rest of time - and yeah, it’s gone past crush and thinking she’s just gorgeous, to wanting to take a fucking bullet for her, or fight a bear, or poison some little blond bastard, or go full on decapitation madness - is really too hard. He’s too aware of his face, his brusqueness, his reputation as being a lot of a cunt.

 

How Sansa. Beautiful Sansa, who needs to be protected and kept innocent and appreciated by someone who thinks the sun shines from her very face. How Sansa could do so much better than a big scarred bastard who hates people, loves dogs, and only feels happy when he’s up to his elbows in flour.

 

She swallows, a delicate dip of her throat.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Her perfume is rosewater, but with a muskier note somewhere. It’s almost melancholy, if a scent can be such.

 

Her mouth is so very gentle, and shy, as it brushes his good cheek.

 

“Thank you, Sandor.”

 

Again, he’s not sure what this is about. This connection. Sansa with other men, apart from the gentle Pod and decent Willas, seems nervy. She smiles, and her eyes remain cautious. She chats politely, without passion. She displays this perfect canvas without depth. But with Sandor? Sometimes he sees her glance under her long dark lashes, watching him, before realising he’s clocked her looking and Sansa, slightly pink about the cheeks, returns to her task. The way she craves his approval in regards to baking. She seems pleased with the praises of the women, but her breath catches when she turns to hear his judgement. How when he is harsh something seems to crumble behind her gaze, and rips his lungs from his chest.

 

The kiss lingers, like her scent, like the brief touch of her fingertips upon his wrist, like the endless summer-day blue of her eyes, even after she’s left him to join the others.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Bronn looks over; he’s all leather trousers and insouciance. “Lovely looking ‘un, that ‘un.”

 

“Piss off, Blackwater.”

 

“She’s no Margie though. Couple of outstanding things about the gorgeous Margie.” Obscene gestures with his hands demonstrate mountainous cleavage. “Might have to stab that chubby fooker, get him off me girl.”

 

He peers at the collection of pies, scoops one up. The colouration means only one person could ever conceive of that. Blood orange sits, angry and pissed-off, upon one of the best meringues they’d ever tasted.

 

Ramsay, despite his hatred of Botanical Week, blew everyone out of the water with the first challenge.

 

“Tell Beric he’s on a fucking diet.”

 

“You tell bossman he’s on a fucking diet, you big cunt. Me and him are havin’ some massacremeringue.”

 

Sandor stares. Bronn grins, the cocky shit.

 

* * *

 

Technical is, as predicted, mostly a clusterfuck.

 

Of the seven bakers remaining, only two know what fougasse is. The leaf-shaped slash bread proves rather controversial, and Brienne, who lost it in the last round, manages to drag herself back, gritted teeth and deathly determined, to take third place. Stoic and warrior-like. Good woman.

 

Ramsay takes far too much pleasure in slitting the bread dough with his carving knife, obviously pleased to have an excuse to use the damned thing. He comes second, mostly because he slightly overcooked the bread, and his idea of leaf-shaped are more like the enchanted sword Sting from _Lord of the Rings_ than gentle curves and delicate lines.

 

Beric murmurs something about Hobbits and taking them to Isengard, watching Ramsay with a look that, given this is Dondarrion and he’s usually so chill about everything, seems almost intense. More like taking fucking Bolton up his Eye of Sauron.

 

Pod wins. Pod is triumphant. He explains, bashfully, that when he goes to the cinema, he makes fougasse as a snack. Margaery eyes him; that crooked smile of hers signifies she either wants to drag him off and have lots and lots of wild and rampant sex, or she wants to cuddle, watch a film, and nibble at his fougasse.

 

Innuendo intended.

 

Fougasse as a snack at the pictures. Pod is middle class as fuck.

 

The rest fail, in their own way. Willas forgets to let his dough prove properly, and earns a licentious glare from his grandmother. Since he’s been consistently above average in most of the tasks up until now, and Olenna’s not needed to be disapproving, the shock of being a bit shit hits him, sends him into a spiral of self-disappointment.

 

Walda manages edible, all wide-eyed and worried because she’s never made that sort of bread before as Grandfather never liked foreign things, and she always wanted to make him happy. She promises to try better next time, and Brienne rubs her back with a kindly calloused hand. They’ve made quite fast friends, the two of them, and at least Walda has a meat shield between her and Ramsay. If Bolton dares try something, everyone knows they’ll have six foot three of angry Valkyrie to deal with.

 

Some of them want Ramsay to do something, just to watch Brienne go medieval on his arse.

 

Despite all her efforts, Sansa fails miserably. She, for the first time in the competition, comes last in a challenge. Of course she manages a tiny weakling smile, and a nod, and she knew she’d done horribly, but it’s a bombshell to everyone left.

 

Oberyn makes something that’s very good indeed, but so far from fougasse that they have to, sadly, put him in sixth place. He grins all good natured, before comforting the damp-eyed Willas with a hand to his thigh, a sip from a hip flask that looks suspiciously like the one Tyrion wielded the previous week. He leans in, murmurs something in Tyrell’s ear that sends a slow smile across the man’s face, and Oberyn chuckles.

 

Everything to play for as they careen towards the final challenge.

 

Sansa is in danger of leaving the tent.

 

The thought slashes at Sandor’s chest, like Ramsay at his fougasse dough.

 

It fucking hurts.

 

* * *

 

While the others seem cautiously optimistic about Botanical Week, chattering about the use of elderflower cordials, sugared edible petals, and the like, Ramsay looks, even more than normal, irate. He stares at the judges and the presenters, elbows on his workbench.

 

Creepy little short-arsed prick.

 

“Flowers? Seriously?”

 

“A fine and ancient tradition, stretching back centuries,” Olenna tells him with one of her characteristic almost cocaine sniffs. Not that she’s a user. At least not now. Since she was everywhere during the early ‘70s she was probably off her face on mescaline, large-cocked hippies who she’d scrub before banging them, and LSD. Cocaine. More an ‘80s thing, and by then Olenna’d be far too old to do the whole yuppie shit. Hopefully. The presence of Left and Right, who usually looked pretty shagged out, sets images into Clegane’s head that he really really tries to avoid.

 

“What are you doing for your showstopper, Ramsay?”

 

“Lavender and honey infused bitter chocolate cake with layered strawberries, strawberry cream, and edible oleander blossoms.”

 

The red and black theme continues.

 

“That sounds lov-”

 

Sandor interrupts Yara. “Oleander’s poisonous.”

 

Ramsay just grins. A dimple disconcertingly deepens in his cheek.

 

“You’re fucking kiddin-?”

 

“Cut,” Beric sighs, emerging from behind the cameras that lurk next to the knot of people. Around them, the rest of the bakers beaver industriously though obviously eavesdrop. “Sandor, can you please remember not to curse?”

 

“Fucking lethal shit he’s putting on his cunting cake!”

 

The director presses his thumb into the corner of his eye socket, under his red eyebrow. It is an outward sign of stress that comes rarely to Dondarrion, and for a moment Sandor has one of his tiny guilty moments, but fucking hell, this is serious. Ramsay’s putting poisonous flowers on a cake. Ramsay is a fucking psychopath.

 

“Pick it off then. Dear.”

 

It’s eerie how well Bolton can mimic Olenna, who stares down her impressive matriarchal at the baker, glittering and superior. Poisoning. It reminds them all horribly of the ‘Purple Wedding Cake’ incident from the Infamous Series Six when four of the bakers contracted salmonella from an undercooked sponge. But worse. Obviously. The girls let Sandor have this particular battle. Fucking women.

 

“Fuck’s sake! Am I the only person around here that understands that putting deadly shit on a cake and feeding it to someone might kill the poor bastard who eats it?”

 

Ramsay triggers something primal, something wanting to punch his vicious little teeth down his vicious little throat. He stands there, smirking away in his Darth Vader t-shirt, obviously loving the way that Clegane is about to explode and bring upon his head justice and wrath. Perhaps the sick little bastard likes it? Maybe he’s itching for a fight to work off some tension or something?

 

“Sandor.” Beric’s voice in his ear, all warm and understanding. “They’re not real oleander. They’re paste ones.”

 

Sandor blinks.

 

Ramsay giggles. Actually giggles. It’s...fucking terrifying.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Want a cuppa?” A warm hand replete with callouses rubs his back.

 

“When will you two fuck, by the way?” Ramsay leers, expectantly.

 

“Sorry, Ramsay. He’s not my type. Far too normal for me.”

 

“So then, Eyepatch. What’s your type? Someone who bends you over and fucks you senseless, right? You’re such a bitch. You’d beg for it, wouldn’t you? On your knees, wanting cock in whatever hole you can get it.”

 

The pale eyes slide down Beric’s torso, assessing, and Ramsay slides his tongue over his front teeth.

 

It’s horrific. It’s fucked up. It’s flirting, but not as Clegane knows it.

 

For Sandor, flirting tends to be horribly awkward, and punctuated with his own idiocy. He says stupid stuff, comes over all aggressive and rather angry - which he is, in all honesty - and being interested in someone (Sansa, okay. Sansa) has him flailing about, making a complete tit of himself before the girl. He’s either making her cry, or saying inappropriate non-attractive sentences that, when he reviews the interaction, makes Clegane want to go and shove his face in a bowl of bread dough and suffocate himself to a strangely fitting death.

 

This interaction is aggressive in a way that transcends his own and builds on that. It’s dangerous, and murderous, and all too much Bolton-ey. If the little cunt comes anywhere near Beric, Sandor’ll knock the bastard seven ways to Sevenmas.

 

“Perhaps, Ramsay,” and Beric smiles his benign zen smile and allows whatever Bolton is trying to do just wash over him, “but I think you should get on with your baking. Time constraints, and your design is quite intricate.”

 

In a moment Ramsay deflates, just a little, like a sad sort of souffle. Nice one, Dondarrion. That’s how you deal with little cunts like Ramsay; don’t give them the satisfaction.

 

“From the top, please. Or, at least, from before the swearing.”

 

Five minutes later, during a montage of bakers hard at work and looking panicked, Ramsay whirls a piping bag around his fingers with the smuggest, smirkiest of sneers, and starts icing.

 

Black shot with red, over the black and red layers of cake and strawberry that he’s carefully crumbed with buttercream. That isn’t the issue, because everything Bolton touches is worryingly emo, though he’d probably snarl and say that he’s punk, bitch. The actual matter in hand is that Ramsay can pipe. He’s seriously, frighteningly, brilliantly good. Of course the way he does it look like he’s strangling the piping bag, but that’s neither here nor there.

 

“All in the hands,” he says, staring straight into camera.

 

Given the t-shirt, and the general Sithiness in colour of the bake, of course #DarthRamsay trends - along with puns regarding Star Baker Destroyers and Force choking icing into co-operation.

 

Then the memes start.

 

For the first time, seriously, people start believing that Ramsay might actually win.

 

* * *

 

“Winterfell roses are blue,” she says, and Sandor wonders if they are the same startling hue as her pretty eyes. “We have glasshouses, and my Dad used to enter them in the county show. They used to be so beautiful, but now no one’s really tending them they’ve grown a little wild. Whenever I go North, I pick one to remind me of when I was little.”

 

Sansa brushes her thumb over the sugared cream rose petals that she’ll use to decorate her cake.

 

“These ones are from the Tyrell nursery.”

 

Willas, still a little red-eyed, gives her a thumbs up; it sets Sansa laughing.

 

Sansa laughing.

 

Possibly the most incredible sound he’s ever heard. Usually she’s rather constrained, almost sedate, even if over the episodes Sansa has come out of her shell a little. With Willas and Pod she seems almost comfortable, and with Sandor? That connection, however confusing, ties them together. Yara, slyly - she’s always a sly one - postulated when they were slightly drunk a few nights previously that maybe seeing him smash Joffrey Lannister in the face has something to do with Sansa’s high regard, but surely breaking her ex-fiance’s nose and landing the bastard in hospital and then jail can’t make a girl like him?

 

It’d be a bit fucked up if it did. In a good way, sure.

 

She jumbles his thoughts into a semi-combined cake batter of yearning.

 

“What’re you making,” Sandor says, and a faint pinkness traces her throat, her collar bones.

 

"Rose and camomile genoise, with piped roses, and sugared rose petals. It’s subtle, and delicate, but hopefully you’ll like it.”

 

“A super combination.” Olenna nods approvingly, and Sansa smiles. Her eyes, however, do not leave Sandor’s own. The camera surreptitiously zooms, capturing the full and lovely effect of blue, and cream, and auburn tied in that characteristic long plait over her shoulder.

 

Not only Twitter melts. Up and down the land, in kitchens and living rooms, prisons and hospitals, in army barracks and prison television rooms, everyone falls a little more in love with Sansa the nation’s newest sweetheart.

 

* * *

 

As they cross the tent, Margaery runs her soft fingers across the back of Clegane’s hand and her eyes sparkle. She’s a stunning looking woman, and clearly scheming. He doesn’t trust either of those things.

 

“Willas says she speaks highly of you.”

 

“She’s nice,” he points out, squashing the obvious meaning with the blunt hammer of his tongue. “She probably speaks fucking wonderful shit about us all.”

 

“My brother is dense when it comes to people. If he wasn’t, he’d have let Oberyn carry him away like some Khal carrying his captured Khaleesi into the desert.” Margie does have a romantic streak, even though she attempts to mask it with sheer practicality. In another life, she’d have had five very old, very rich, very dead husbands by now, and she’d be Merry Widowing the shit out of the place. “He’s never really been interested in people, and now Willas isn’t quite sure what to do when faced with actually liking someone.”

 

“He’s a virgin?” Shit. Even Sandor’s had sex. Quite a bit of it, to be frank, but the women never stuck around after seeing his face in daylight, and since he became famous, he’s leery of being shagged for tabloid headlines and blackmail attempts.

 

“No one knows. Willas is Willas, and we love him. We all try and protect him, though Grandmother does put the fear of the Seven into him. Eldest child syndrome, I think. He wants to be perfect for everyone, and is terrified of failure.”

 

“That’s really bloody deep for you, woman.”

 

She laughs, and her voice is a husky sensation of fingers trailing across spines. Objectively, Sandor knows Margaery Tyrell is gorgeous, but everything seems just that little perfectly polished, a tad calculating. It is as if she acts, and even she has no idea where the projection ends and the real Margie starts.

 

Clegane saw the true woman once, that he knows of, and he was smearing Joffrey Lannister’s nose across his face at the time and cracking one of his own knuckles in response. Five minutes later, she assumed her role once more; smiling, pretty, water off a Tyrell’s back, but Margaery, for the rest of the series, stayed very near to Sandor at all times within the tent. She told him, cheerfully, that she must show gratitude to her knight in black denim, and she seemed fine. More than fine. But maybe it affected her more than Margie wanted to admit.

 

“Willas. Roses, I presume?” Yara grins, and Tyrell looks up. He has batter on his face, and looks adorable in that deer in headlights way of his.

 

“Tyrell roses. Oh dear. Sansa and I are doing the same thing.” He runs a hand through his uncharacteristically untidy hair. Willas knows he’s close to leaving the tent. Poor little bastard. Hard enough knowing that you’ve fucked up, as well as having your national treasure Grandmother overseeing your demise. “Camomile and rose here, too.”

 

“We’re both going to do our best, aren’t we?” Sansa, overhearing because Tyrells in distress make foghorns sound soft and demure, slips behind Willas’ bench and touches his arm. “We’re almost like a brother and sister in cake making.”

 

A pause, and then there is hugging. Lots and lots of hugging.

 

They make a pretty couple, do Sansa and Willas. She’s an inch or two shorter, and they are very willowy in that late 19th century slightly tormented neo-medievalist manner. The sort of people who, if together, would produce the most beautiful of babies, and everyone would say how handsome they are together, and the wedding would be full of cream Tyrell roses and the blue blossoms of the North.

 

Sandor crosses his arms across his massive chest, staring bleakly at the two of them embracing, before the heavens and the Seven send divine intervention.

 

“I’ll take him from here,” purrs a voice, and Sansa immediately relinquishes her hold on the now watery-eyed and slightly whimpering Willas. He’s quite pathetic, as things go. No one, in the history of _Bake Off_ , has cried as much as him. He’s one of nature’s weepers. Perfectly understandable when you’re related to Olenna, of course.

 

Oberyn replaces Sansa. For a moment Willas freezes, unsure, before he seems to just melt into the hold. He seems rather more at home in those arms than in Sansa’s caring hold.

 

“You shall be magnificent, pretty one. You must not fret, yes?”

 

A tut, a sigh, a surreptitious nuzzle that’s all caught on camera.

 

“Sorry. I just. Sorry. I get so nervous, and I did so awfully in the last round, and I don’t want to leave you. I mean. The competition. This. All of you. Not just you. I mean, you, too, Oberyn, but you know what I mean, I hope, because really it’s so lovely being here, and-”

 

Watching Willas Tyrell flail desperately to try and save face before the man he obviously fancies but has no idea what to do about it is both sweet and rather painful, until Oberyn kisses the very corner of his mouth and silences him.

 

“The time passes, my rose, and you must ice your cake.”

 

“Oh Gods. I’m keeping you here, and you’re not done, and-”

 

“Shh. You are more important than my cake, Willas.”

 

Twitter actually dies. It dies a death because, OMG, actual couple action! And a totally romantic kiss! And basically a declaration of love over baking, because Oberyn would totally sacrifice his cake for Willas! And OMG! SQUEE! #MarTyr #GWBO2016 #gaycakelove #roseandsnake

 

It’s down for the rest of the evening.

 

RIP Twitter. We will never forget you.

 

* * *

 

Walda, thankfully, brings everyone back down to earth with her bustling warmth and cheer. Having done well in the signature part, and managing to get through the technical challenge, she’s obviously feeling quite hopeful of going through to the next week.

 

“Elderflower cordial, and I’m using sparkling water in the sponge to make it light. It really does work! I wanted to use prosecco, but I can’t really practice with it at home as I can’t drink now, and Leechy’s being teetotal for support. I mean, he didn’t really drink much before, but he’s being so amazing with the pregnancy. I’m so lucky to have a fiance as wonderful as him!”

 

She sparkles, like the fizzy liquid in the blue glass bottles she’s poured into her cake mix. She also pointedly doesn’t look at Ramsay; indeed, Walda carefully edges around so her back is towards her soon to be stepson. Her engagement ring - some sort of hugely expensive black metal cradling an even more expensive and rather massive pink stone, adds to her general demeanour.

 

“What a gorgeous ring,” Margie breathes. “Is that your engagement band?”

 

When Walda smiles, she’s very pretty. It’s as if the worry of being murdered by Ramsay melts from her face, turning her back into the delightfully plump young woman she really is.

 

“It’s the colours of House Bolton. I still can’t believe I’m going to be Lady Bolton. Isn’t that silly! Me! A lady! Black for the background. Roosey calls it,” and she thinks, audibly. “Sable. That’s it. Sable, with a rose diamond for the flayed man. Colours in heraldry are called tinctures. He’s teaching me all of the ancient house sigils. It made me realise why Sansa loves wolves!”

 

“You’re in a good mood today, dear.” Olenna gives one of her patented Old Kindly Lady smiles.

 

“My morning sickness is finally over, and we’re having the scan next week. When I see you next, I’ll be able to bring in an ultrasound of Bump for you to see!”

 

Of course something smashes into a thousand shards of ceramic, but as the occurrence is now weekly, and sometimes twice an episode, a runner scampers in and clears up the sad remains of Ramsay’s mixing bowl.

 

At least it was empty this time. Solidified Yorkshire pudding batter is a bitch to scrub from carpet tiles.

 

* * *

 

Of course Margaery does Pod’s interview. He’s looking divinely and sturdily dependable in a handknit cabled jersey that Sansa admired hugely before they started filming, and he’s pushed his sleeves to his elbows.

 

Sandor has forearm competition. Not that Podrick’s are hairy and chiselled from kneading bread every day since he was eighteen, but they’re pale and dotted with moles, and look the sort of arms that could give the best of cuddles. Pod remains the sort of young man that mums desperately want their daughters (or sons, this is an era of equal opportunities after all) to bring home and introduce as their beloved boyfriend.

 

“What are you making for me today?” She leans on the counter, squeezes her elbows together, gives him the full force of her cleavage.

 

Pod, who is the sort to ask permission to look, even if someone desperately flaunts, keeps his eyes above breast level.

 

“Juniper is a flavour that’s been used for thousands of years as a flavouring, but it can be quite sharp. So I’m using gin-”

 

Olenna perks, visibly.

 

“Gin and lemonade syrup over my sponges, which are flavoured with Earl Grey tea.”

 

“Tea’s a tricky one,” Sandor interjects. He’s never been a fan. “It can be so flavourless that it’s a waste of time putting it in.”

 

Margaery huffs, looking at Clegane with a sort of ‘do not dare. I will end you' expression.

 

“I’m making it all good and strong. I’m sorry if I get you a bit tipsy.” Pod smiles, pink-cheeked and so steadfast.

 

“If you get me tipsy, you’ll have to hold me up. I get so flirty when I’m drunk, Pod. You’d have to look after me, because it’d be your fault.”

 

“If you need me, Miss Tyrell, I’ll be there for you.” Lovely Pod. “It’d be an honour.”

 

Yara looks over the top of her glasses, and Sandor braces himself. She’s been quite quiet this episode, apart from her usual puns, and her innuendo has been quite lacking. Uncharacteristic, but she does look a little tired. The careful application of foundation across her neck seems to indicate that Daenerys might be a bit of a biter. Targaryens. Mouthy little fuckers.

 

“Are you inserting anything into the middle, or is your filling going to be smeared all over the outside?”

 

Podrick does his semi-smile that seems far too serious for a young man of his age. “I’ve coated the outside with my cream, and now I’m going to use my nozzle to decorate it more. Given how soft my batter is, I have to be careful with how I handle it. If I’m too rough, I could ruin everything. I’m not the best at piping, I’m not that experienced, so sometimes I go a bit hard at it with my hands and the icing comes out too early. I’m giving it my best shot, though.”

 

Gods bless Pod and his innocence.

 

Half a minute later, he realises what he’s said, and while they’re chatting to Brienne, all they can hear is a soft exclamation of ‘bugger’ from across the tent.

 

* * *

 

Chaos, thy name is Brienne. She has two complete cakes, lemon and poppy seed and healthy alternative as always, and one, still smouldering and distressingly blackened about the edges, sitting woefully upon the work surface.

 

“I’m going home.” She doesn’t seem shocked. “I’ve had to throw out my top tier because it burned. I forgot the oven at home isn’t as hot as this one, didn’t compensate, and overcooked the sponge. I’m trying to get another cake ready in time, but the issue is cooling it enough so I can ice it now. You specified three layers, and I can either give you two, properly decorated, or three, partially decorated. Given the remit of the showstopper challenge - a three tier floral cake - I’ll have failed.”

 

“Don’t give up.” Margaery goes up on her toes to rub Brienne’s shoulder soothingly.

 

“Oh. I’m not giving up.” There is a gleam in the woman’s glorious eyes - prettier, Sandor treacherously realises, than even Sansa’s - that shows a steel core, a backbone of a warrior. “I’m going to fight until the bitter end to try and bring you something. I’m going to leave the tent with my head held high, knowing that I’ve done all I can. If I fail, I fail, but I will never ever give up.”

 

She smiles faintly at the camera. “Sorry Jaime. You know me and flowers - I tend to look at them and they die. Trees, I can cope with, and shrubs. Remember when I accidentally killed your pet cactus? The one you called Tyrion because it’s small and spiky? You told me at the time I was a curse on plants. It’s a shame, because I do appreciate them aesthetically. I think you’ll have to be ready with a cup of tea and a takeaway when this is on telly, so I can watch my inevitable demise with something really tasty.”

 

From the wings, someone - Tyrion - yells that he isn’t a cactus. He’s a succulent.

 

“I’m ready to go, to be honest. I’ve been so lucky to be on _Bake Off_ , and I’ve done my best and championed the alternative side of baking, but given the competition is so fierce, I think it’s time for me to go home to Jaime, and Tarth.”

 

“You might not be the only screw up.” 

 

She gives her self-deprecating grin. “Sandor. We need to find a broadsword class, don’t we?”

 

“You’re in Tarth, I’m here-”

 

“One day, Ser Clegane, we shall meet in combat.”

 

“I’m no ser.”

 

The grin widens. “I’m no lady. Suits us.”

 

* * *

 

“Today’s Star Baker is someone who brings a tartness to their citrus pie, a slightly unhinged shape to their fougasse, and makes even a floral three-tiered cake look like a frighteningly attractive murder scene. Congratulations, Ramsay.” Yara goes through the motions, but her usual pleasure at announcing the best baker for the episode does not show in her tone. No wonder, given who’s won.

 

Sharp teeth glitter, weird eyes absorbing the honour with a hunger for recognition for a skill he undoubtedly possesses, but no one approaches Bolton to offer congratulations. He doesn’t seem to care, positioned right at the end of the row of stools for a reason. Next to him, a barrier between Ramsay and the others, Brienne sits tall and relaxed.

 

Margaery has the shit job, and of course it’s Brienne. She did amazingly well. Her cake is actually edible considering that she’s not used wheat flour, and the lemon and poppy seed comes through beautifully. It’s also adequately decorated in shocking Tarth blue swirls and dusted with silver shimmer; sea-like, and simple, and pretty.

 

It has two tiers.

 

Next to her, Walda makes a tiny sound that suggests a sob. Her hand finds Brienne’s and squeezes so very tightly that their knuckles turn white with pressure.

 

“Thank you so much for the opportunity. I appreciate having the chance to show that healthy baking can be as tasty as the usual techniques and ingredients.” Brienne kisses them all, gives Ramsay a questioning look, and allows Walda to sob all over her non-existent bosom.

 

* * *

 

“It’s going to kick off.” Beric digs into the black sponge with a fork, spearing strawberries on the way. “Brienne’s been shielding Walda for a few episodes now, and she’s gone. Plus, if she is going to bring a scan photograph in-”

 

“Best get your security t-shirt on then.”

 

Sandor’s snaffling up pale blue icing, sugared petals, ivory cream sponge. Sansa’s cake is light and airy, and tasty. However, she obviously didn’t cream together her butter and sugar thoroughly, probably aware of time constraints, and the resulting genoise isn’t quite up to her usual standards. The flavouring is a little too delicate for Beric’s palate. He prefers robustness, and obviousness. Explosions upon his tongue. If something is put into a cake for a reason, it should fulfil a purpose. It’s a shame, as it has such potential, but perhaps it’s more to the liking of people who haven’t suffered severe head trauma?

 

Being around Sandor means knowing how to make a mean sponge. Beric’s Victoria sandwich is a delight to behold. He has rather high standards.

 

“What with this, and Varys and Tyrion on set? I can deal with Varys. I’ve been dealing with him for the past however many years. However, Tyrion brings out the worst in him, I swear. The number of times they said Mance Rayder today, just to piss me off.”

 

He rubs at that slightly tender spot, under his eyebrow, where a headache lurks.

 

Sandor straightens, scowling. “Shit. Something’s getting to you?

 

“Can’t you feel it, Sandy? The gathering perfect storm?”

 

In response Clegane eats more cake. Unlike Beric, who utilises implements, he’s just holding a wedge of sponge between his fingers, lewdly sucking sweet icing from the tips when everything just gets that little bit too messy. Dondarrion makes himself not stare; do not get blow job thoughts from a man who would never give a blow job. Especially a man who is is best friend, a brother. Even if Sandor is attractive, he isn’t Ram-

 

 _Stop dwelling upon psychotic Bolton gamer geeks_ , he orders himself, for the umpteenth time that day. _Even if they are fascinating._

 

“Ramsay is a pressure cooker, ready to explode, unless he’s just playing us all. I hope to the Gods he’s playing us all, Sandy. He isn’t like Joffrey or Baelish where you know underneath everything they’re cowards. He’s that honey badger. And Varys has something up his sleeve. I need to know what’s going on there. He keeps smirking at me.”

 

Varys smirking is the worst.

 

“Maybe he’s just fucking Mance Rayder.”

 

That gets Beric choking, laughing, all at the same time, and Clegane hammers him on the back with a fist to dislodge the crumbs that threaten his airway.

 

“That’s the first hilarious thing I’ve heard all day.”

 

They sit at their usual place - on the floor, next to Sansa’s oven - and munch in silence.

 

“Sandy?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks for giving Ramsay Star Baker.”

 

“The little cunt was the best.” A shrug.

 

Beric watches Ramsay too much. He saw the slight flinch when the Star Baker’s name was called, the momentary shocked reaction, the dawning realisation that someone actually gave him credit for a job well done. Whatever his relationship with his family, and it does seem broken - what sort of man doesn’t tell their child that they’re getting married, or are having a baby with their fiancee? Beric feels oddly protective of Ramsay in regards to that, poor sod - Bolton obviously craves attention. Power. It explains his YouTube channel full of insults, the websites where there are men dominating other men. It even explains how refusing to respond to his sneering and needling made Ramsay lessen, diminish a tad. He’s basically, and Beric has a psychology degree so he does understand some of this, even if he is quite rusty, a child having a tantrum to get someone to pay attention to him.

 

Albeit with carving knives, violence, dodgy porn, and internet trolling. And tight jeans designed to make Beric stare at that truly incredible backside.

 

Freud would have a field day with the Bolton family.

 

He’d also have a field day with Dondarrion, too.

 

How fucked up is the man who really fancies a fuck up? It isn’t as if Beric wants to change Ramsay, because if he is what he is, he’s what he is. Maybe more healthy coping mechanisms for his anger, and a good amount of therapy? Maybe allowing Ramsay to strap him into some of those complicated leather-bound positions that can be found on those websites and just having his way?

 

Maybe that’s more Beric than Ramsay? Because, bloody hell, the more he thinks about the websites, the more he wonders what it’d be like. He’s fairly robust, and physical pain isn’t really an issue - if you’ve been shot in the face, anything else is a doddle - and he’s got a pair of leather trousers from his misspent youth back in the mid ‘90s. Being told what to do comes part and parcel with working with Varys. He’s always bottomed, which surprises most people who see Beric’s height and demeanour and think he’s the calmest and most zen of tops imaginable.

 

“Stop thinking about that short-arsed fuckweasel,” Sandor rumbles, cutting another piece of Sansa’s cake.

 

“I’m not.”

 

Clegane knows him too well.

 

“Sansa kissed me earlier,” Sandor says, as if it’s not enormous news.

 

“Where?!”

 

“In the tent.”

 

A sigh. “No, you idiot. Where did she kiss you physically?”

 

Sandor taps just below his cheekbone, his gob full of cake and unable to articulate anything apart from a muffled ‘mmph.’

 

“Just never wash your face again, Sandy, and you’ll carry it with you forever.” Beric pauses, then pokes his friend on the knee with a booted toe. “Maybe next week, she’ll kiss you again?”

 

* * *

 


	7. Week 7: Sponge Roulade, Marjolaine, and Mini Mousse Cakes

* * *

 

Weather reflecting mood. Very _Jeyne Eyre_. Not that Beric enjoys romantic novels from nineteenth century authors; he’s more action adventure. SAS. He prefers the occasional foray into the lighter side of the written word with a graphic novel collection that rivals that of most libraries. Sandor is the one that did A-level Common Language and Literature. He’s the one that can tell you the significance of the Red Room in Charlotte Bronte’s seminal novel. Apparently it’s all to do with the loss of innocence, the flowering of womanhood. Periods.

 

To Beric, who half-listens when Sandor gets his literature rant on, it’s a room that just happens to be painted red. Which he likes. Most of his own home is decorated in various shades of autumn (he refuses to admit they’re fire-influenced) and it creates a warmth and cosiness. There are blankets, and a surprisingly large number of pointless throw cushions; Stranger has shed all over or made love to each and every one.

 

Sandor often comments that doing literature in school buggered him for light reading for the rest of the space-time continuum. He can’t sit and enjoy a book. He finds himself delving too deep. And, as the Dwarves of Moria know, that always leads to Bad Things. Sandor suffers from Literature Goblins.

 

Note. Don’t ask Clegane to discuss the themes in the Lord of the Rings. It always ends up with three o’clock in the morning drunken re-enactments of Helm’s Deep armed with various spatulas.

 

Rain teems, and Beric despairs.

 

The tent tends to steam up in conditions like this. Condensation drips. Electrics and electronics begin to complain. Crew, judges, and bakers sulk. The mood pervades, and the episode never quite attains that spark. Unless it’s Infamous Series Six, and the resulting explosion of green flame from a rampaging baked alaska managed to take out Margaery’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows. It took six months for her to stop having to pencil them on.

 

The Infamous Series Six wasn’t the best for poor Margie, bless her cotton socks.

 

“Shit weather. Shit day.”

 

“Even if it is dessert week.” Sandor found him in a closet eating half a marjolaine earlier in the week, attempting to hide his addiction. Because of that, and a curiously missing jam and clotted cream sponge roulade, Beric’s been threatened with ball gags.

 

Unfortunately, this only fuels what he’s now calling his ‘nocturnal exploits.’ He doesn’t mean to think about short angry muscular bakers coming at him with piping bags and a certain demented flair. Honestly. It just happens that after a long day, when knotted and tense and internally stressed by the very presence of Varys (Beric, on the surface, is millpond still), a man has needs. Erectile needs. Zen must be maintained. People depend upon his broad shoulders to hold the weight of Bake Off, _a la_ Atlas holding the heavens aloft in ancient Pentoshi mythology. How can he let his team (apart from Varys, because as Sandor succinctly puts, ‘fuck Varys,’) down by not providing the rock foundation upon which all is built? And, perhaps, Beric’s just mildly interested in being tied down and used like a six foot four and seventeen stone slut by someone who seems to know what he’s doing? It isn’t a crime to consider bedroom practices, is it?

 

He pauses, sighs, scrubs his hand across his face, tries not to think about Ramsay. Which is hard. Like he is most nights between eleven thirty and midnight.

 

Justifying idly fantasy life to himself now? Really. At least he doesn’t envisage Sandor doing those  filthy things to him in those dark wee hours, when he can’t stop wanking like a teenager. At least it’s Ramsay. Which is better than considering Sandor gagging him and having his wicked way, at least. Less embarrassing considering how closely Beric works with Clegane, how brotherly they are. It’s almost incest.

 

“Going to be a fucking shitshow.”

 

“I’m just worried about it, Sandy.” A big warm hand, calloused and scarred from years of hardcore baking, pats him guardedly. Grey eyes narrow, flickering concern, for Beric never does anything as human as worry. This is a set of circumstances that tempts such errant emotions.

 

Best case scenario; Walda doesn’t bring in a photo of her foetus, Ramsay doesn’t kill someone, and it’s all happy clappy joy to the world baking. Sandor will touch Sansa, sending him into a paroxysm of teenage boy-style excitement at the feel of a woman, and they’ll end up going on a date. Finally. Beric’ll get laid, because he really bloody needs to get Ramsay out of his system. He’d ask Oberyn, but Martell’s too fascinated by Willas, so getting Ramsay out will mean letting Ramsay in; orifices to be decided. It’ll all be fine. The rain will stop. Everyone will fall in love with their respective crushes. Wonderful.

 

The tiny muscle below Beric’s eye visibly twitches.

 

Worst case scenario; photo of foetus, Ramsay getting stabby, Sansa telling Sandor to fuck off, and Beric doesn’t get laid whatsoever therefore disturbing his inner calm. He goes A Bit R’hllor at everyone and possibly sets fire to Varys. Sandor’ll snap, and Hot Pie will be brought in to film the rest of the series as the legal proceedings against both Dondarrion and Clegane go on. _Bake Off_ moves to the Other Channel. He and Sandor end up in Harrenhal with Gregor. It’ll all be a little bit like the Infamous Series Six but thankfully with less Joffrey bloody Lannister.

 

A bright spot, there. Silver linings to the darkest clouds.

 

Beric sighs once more, closes the tent flap, leans against a workbench. About them camera crew and sound people scurry. Bronn lifts equipment that probably weighs about as much as himself, though rather less showily than when Margaery’s about. He never performs prettily for anyone else.

 

“Sulky cunts the two of you.” A flash of teeth.

 

“The weather. Can’t you feel the atmospheric pressure?” A dull ache threatens at the bridge of his nose where the air thumps. Everything feels odd, and the light, a yellowish beige that would threaten snow if it wasn’t a muggy and soggy late spring, sallows the entire world.

 

“Weird cunt,” Bronn adds cheerfully. “Where’s Marg?”

 

“Make up.”

 

Blackwater makes sure his jeans cling sexily to various parts of his anatomy, squares his shoulders, dips outside to get sensually damp and glistening, and goes in search of the woman he shags occasionally, when they’re not doing other people, and they’re both in a bit of a quiet patch. Bronn’s a good sort, and much better than Theon at camerawork, but he’s got the usual cameraman’s ability to screw his way through entire casts and crew. He even flirts craggily at Olenna, who soaks rough trade charisma like a sponge, or, more accurately, Varys. Left and Right are paid to give her attention. Bronn, his not inconsiderable charm, and his thoroughly excitable penis actively seek her out.

 

Blackwater once said that he’d totally do Olenna.

 

Cameramen are insatiable.

 

* * *

 

Sansa’s screaming brings all the boys to the tent, in a matter of speaking. There is no milkshake.

 

The cavalry, led by Sandor - though Oberyn, who’s a swashbuckling smooth cunt who can corner more easily but he’s not got the leg length to catch on the straights, so fuck you, Martell - skid over mud, tear the once pristine grass into long stripes of sodden brown, finally end up outside the canvas monolith where Sansa stands, mascara running down her face, red-cheeked, and shaking all over.

 

“Who fucking did it?” he snarls, stalking over, anger slamming his heart into his ribs. “Fucking hells, who the fuck do I fucking punch?”

 

Someone’s hurt her. It’s obvious. To Sandor, at least.

 

She rubs her wrist under her nose, her skin iridescent with rain and the general milky opaline beauty of Sansa’s flesh, peeping up at him through panda-ringed eyes. When she cries - she has to be crying - her irises turn the dappled muted beauty of a Monet painting; bluebells, and trailing strands of weed, and navy silent waters. Her cheeks; pink and white lilies. Her hair becomes a drift of something that tends towards Ophelia given her dripping drowned-rat wetness.

 

Sandor was not only a literature student but also did A-Level Art History; he specialised in the representation of baking during the Northern Renaissance. When told by Gregor that he was a fucking queer for taking such subjects, Sandor merely pointed out that he was the only boy in classes full of good-looking girls, and then got his nose broken for the privilege of speaking. Again.

 

Even like this, raw and sniffling - even more so, because it awakens a strange tenderness in Sandor’s head that makes him want to hug, and punch, and bite, and protect, all in one moment - she’s so lovely.

 

“I-”

 

“Who hurt you? I’ll fucking break them.” His hands, massive and scuffed, wrap about her forearms. Under his grip she feels delicate. Fragile. Like the little bird who sings for him every fucking episode without realising.

 

Around them is nothing but torrential rain. The others blend into sheets of water, as if they are looked at through waterfalls. It’s just him and Sansa, the vortex of Sandor’s fury swirling and reducing the world to a microcosm that includes just the two of them

 

“No one. I fell-”

 

The tornado cracks, the world spins and comes to focus sickeningly sharp. Someone - Ramsay, the little fucking evil shit - snickers. The world spins, and smashes into his head like a concrete block of perception.

 

Magnified. Everyone’s watching him. Watching Sandor. Making a twat of himself. Over a fucking woman.

 

Fuck.

 

Mud drips from the hem of her top. She’s leggings, and a long shirt thing that looks like a dress, and boots. Greys, and silvers, and charcoal, and all smeared with filth. Even her hands, and Sandor didn’t even look since his intent focussed entirely on her crying - no, her embarrassment, she’s fucking embarrassed, and so’s Sandor because.

 

Fuck squared.

 

He drops her wrists, steps back. Another. The gap between them widens, yawns, chasms.

 

Sandor always thought he was over this. This anger, this attitude of wanting to use his fists when unnecessary because he doesn’t have the emotional vocabulary to communicate in a way more suitable. It’s seen him arrested a few times, and in jail for six months, because when he left home his head? Seriously fucked up. Gregor made sure of that. But, he almost chuckles bitterly, whatever Sandor does, he’s never as evil as his big brother, is he? What’s a punch here, a headbutt there, when the eldest Clegane’s in Harrenhal for all the shit he’s done?

 

Whenever he cares for someone, and yes, he cares for Sansa, far too much, the inner demons make themselves known. Now she’s seen that ugly, angry, violent side of him that’s always there; the darkness of thunder beneath the greyness of a supposedly benign cloud. Now she’s seen him, the actual him, with his fucked upness boiling like his flesh on his face and his violence that not even baking can quell? Now she’s seen him, they’ve all seen him, but Sansa more than the others?

 

She’ll flee. Break him like every other cunt does. Like his sister did by fucking dying. Like Gregor did by destroying him and still ruining his life by existing.

 

The skin at her perfect slender wrists reddens where the blood flows back. He held her too tight? He hurt her?

 

In his misery, and self-disgust, Sandor does the only thing he knows to do; he lashes out.

 

“What the fuck you all looking at?” The growl comes deep from his chest, vibrating through lungs and larynx, spat from his snarling lips that curl crookedly with scars.

 

Making a fool of him. They’re laughing internally; he can taste the mocking. Sansa watches him, muddy and beautiful, and she hates him even if her expression seems oddly understanding. She’d never understand. She’s too fucking perfect, and pure. Sansa’s never been in any situation that’s threatened her. She’s not felt pain like his. Not like Sandor. Not with living with Gregor’s abuse, and his own internal enmity.

 

“San-” she starts, her pink mouth moving but the word lipread as rushing blood fizzes, deafens.

 

Anger peaks; that wrathful avenging angel that keeps him safe and sane in a world that’s hurt him from when he was fucking seven fucking years old. Fuck.

 

This is a cycle. He knows how this goes. Anger. Running away. Destruction.

 

Sandor turns away before he does something to truly regret, hair dripping across his face. He turns his back on Sansa, because why even bother when he’s broken, and damaged, and she’ll never even like him, let alone have feelings for him, because who could ever love a man who cannot even regulate his emotion? Sure, Beric’s kept him sweet for years, but the moment he opens himself up, just a little, to a fucking woman? Down he goes. Back down, the the thick black self-hatred and loathing that makes him vulnerable. Dangerous.

 

He makes it to the HiLux.

 

Sansa doesn’t follow him. None of them do. He doesn’t care to look.

 

At least the cab’s dry, and he’s out of the rain. With damp, the scent of wet dog intensifies, and Sandor would give anything to wrap himself around Stranger’s wiggling, adoring body and just drink himself into a stupor.

 

It’s the first time for almost five years he’s wanted to get seriously, completely, utterly shit-faced.

 

Sure, he drinks with Beric. It’s safe. It’s sociable, and pleasant, and they have a good time. Before _Bake Off_ , before Dondarrion and his friendship? Solitary drunken rages. Blackouts. Bruising on his knuckles, around his eyes. Late nights working as a pastry chef at ridiculously high-end restaurants combined with the usual chemical recreation that hugely stressful jobs encourage just to get through the hideously difficult work days meant that he’d spent, what was it? almost a decade as a mostly functional addict.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Head in hands, he tries those breathing exercises that Beric taught him.

 

“Fuck!”

 

They’re not working.

 

Sandor makes an executive decision before he loses himself to his burgeoning self-disgust and just drives the hell out of the Crownlands - he’s a runner, always has been, when faced with nightmares - and puts his hand through the driver’s side door window.

 

“Fuck! Fuck” Cunts. Fucking shit fuck!”

 

Annoyingly, as he comes back to himself a little and realises he’s bleeding all over his nice pair of jeans, breaking shit, for once, hasn’t done a fucking thing apart from clarify, in his mind, that smashing a car window with his bare fist is a really bloody stupid thing to do.

 

Conversely, at least it wasn’t someone’s face this time.

 

It’s an improvement, he thinks rather absently, as he begins to pick chunks of supposed safety glass from his knuckles.

 

* * *

 

“Beric?”

 

Dondarrion, under a bank of equipment, forgets he’s kneeling beneath thinks that could concuss lesser men, sits up, and smacks his head on something heavy. Given the nature of his everything, it doesn’t even stun him. He’s had worse.

 

“Hey Sansa, are-?”

 

A small puddle forms around her feet, brownish and rather oozy looking. She’s soaked, and red-nosed, and quietly steaming before the space heater that Beric’s using to drive away any pernicious damp that wants to nibble at his electronics.

 

“Oh sweetheart, you’ve got to get out of those wet things.” If it were another person say that, it could sound rather suggestive. “What happened? Are you alright? Look, put this on and we’ll go and find you something to put on, and a cuppa, alright?”

 

Odder things have happened than a pretty young woman turning up covered in mud and dripping about the place. This is _Bake Off_ , after all. Pulling off his fleece, he winds it about her shoulders, tucking her in, fussing.

 

“Beric-”

 

“Did you slip over? I swear, the ground gets worse every year. Apparently it’s something to do with deforestation up on the hill-”

 

“Beric-”

 

“Your shoes are wet through. I’ve got some warm socks somewhere, always carry a spare, so you just sit yourself down and-”

 

“Beric!”

 

Sansa Stark is a sweet, pretty, polished-mannered girl with the sort of carefully guarded and crafted personality that hints at someone hurting her in the past. However, and more importantly, she’s also an early years teacher at an elementary school in Winterfell. She may be a charming and unassuming sort of person, but as she does The Teacher Voice, Beric finds himself freezing, heart hammering, tugged unwillingly back to his own schooldays.

 

His educators always described him as a lovely boy, excellent at any sports, but rather too enthusiastic about everything for his own good. _Beric will change the world, if he doesn’t die first. He is both reckless and unaware that such exploits may come back to haunt him,_ wrote Miss Hill, his fourth year teacher who everyone had a massive eight year old crush upon because she looked a bit like the lead singer from Blondie. If, of course, Debbie Harry turned out to be from Lannisport, loved figurines of frogs, and wore scratchy tweed maxi skirts. Hence getting shot in the face and dying, he supposes. Maggy Hill turned out to be quite the seer, didn’t she?

 

“Sorry, Miss. What were you going to say?”

 

She blinks, smiles faintly; the reaction is purely mechanical..

 

“Sandor thought someone had attacked me, and when he found out that he was wrong, he disappeared off so quickly that I couldn’t catch up with him. I don’t know where he’s gone.” Something swims across her face, so deep and hotly profound that Beric doesn’t quite know what to say. Worry, and fear, and something more primal perhaps? “He was angry about the thought of someone attacking me. Very angry.”

 

If he didn’t know better, he’d think that sensible, polite Sansa Stark quite liked Sandor’s violent streak. The one that saw Clegane punch Joffrey Lannister in the face on national television and made the slimy pervert cry.

 

Oh. That would make perfect sense, of course.

 

“Right. I best go and get him back.”

 

She goes to take off the fleece, and Beric tugs it tighter around her shoulders, knots the sleeves.

 

“Go and have a nice cup of tea,” he orders, in his best director voice. Compared to Sansa’s teacher voice, it’s really not impressive whatsoever.

 

* * *

 

“Alright?” Beric sidles into the passenger seat, soaking the well-worn leather.

 

Sandor holds his hand up. Blood drips. It feels lumpy, and a bit wrong. Beric tuts, delves into the glove compartment, brings out a first aid kit, and gets to work with tweezers.

 

“How’ve you managed to make such a mess with safety glass, Sandy?"

 

“Just did.”

 

“I thought we were past this.” Dondarrion’s honey golden eyes never judge. Not even when Sandor wants him to. Beric takes whatever’s thrown at them both, deals with it, makes everything better, like some fucking do-gooding bastard. He doesn’t hit shit. He meditates, and does his breathing exercises. Mental processing rather than physical lashing out. Yeah, there were a few arson attacks, especially during Beric’s younger, more communist teenage years where he saw himself as the Stormland’s answer to Robin Hood, but age and experience means sensible and healthy ways of dealing with emotions and tribulations.

 

Not punching car windows.

 

“How’d you know I was here?”

 

“Sansa came to find me.” He hums, grasps a granule of glass, extricates it neatly. “She’s a lovely girl.”

 

“Fucking hates me. Hurt her.”

 

“That’s the self-loathing talking, mate. Remember what we discussed about that? What do we say to self-loathing? Not today.”

 

“I grabbed her fucking arms, Beric.”

 

“Did you talk to her about it, or did you do your usual storming off and hitting things?” A red eyebrow raises, even if Dondarrion doesn’t look up from his task, Shards clink as he drops each removed piece into the ashtray.

 

“...hate you.”

 

“I know you do.” Unwrapping a length of gauze, the arduous task of strapping Sandor back together begins. As injuries go, this is a bit of a shit one. There’s no broken bones, and the wounds are shallow enough even if they look spectacularly messy. It aches, and it’ll bruise to shit, and the cuts’ll itch, but as things go, it’s minor. “She thinks a lot of you, does Sansa. Like I do, Sandor. Like a lot of us do.”

 

Rain beats down, turning the windscreen to smeared torrents.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Beric grins.

 

“I’ve worked her out, by the way. It’s definitely because you punched Joffrey in the face. See, your well-placed anger gets you admiration. When Sansa was talking about your reaction, she wasn’t scared. Far from it, actually. I think she thought that you being angry on her behalf was quite sexy. Maybe she’s not used to men who’re protective of people they like? If Joffrey did that to Margie on television, I don’t want to think what he probably did to Sans-”

 

“Don’t.” His voice cracks, unbidden, hollow and deep and clicking. “Just don’t. Reminds me of Gregor.”

 

Joffrey Lannister is a lightweight, a nothing, a flimmery, compared to the eldest Clegane. They’d convicted Gregor, without uncovering half of his crimes, for life that means life; he’ll never get out of Harrenhal on his own two feet. In a casket, sure. He’ll get buried on the family plot, Sandor’ll go and shit on his grave, and the world will be a sweeter place.

 

“They all saw me. They laughed. Like it’s fucking hilarious that I reacted like I did. Like some overprotective parent when their daughter falls and skins her bloody knee. They know I. Y’know. Like her.”

 

“The only person who’s opinion matters in that situation is Sansa, and she thinks you’re wonderful.”

 

Like hells she does.

 

Yet, deep and squirmy, that tiny beacon of flaming hope still flickers. Dull, and almost out, sure, but maybe Sansa does like men who’re reactive, and race to protect her? Maybe Sansa wants to feel safe? Not knowing what happened with her and Joffrey, but Sandor suspects that their relationship tended towards the deeply unpleasant, the incredibly fucked up, puts him at a disadvantage. If he were another sort of man, he’d sweet talk her. Flirt charmingly and smoothly. Bring her flowers. Act like some fucking knight around a maiden who he wants to court. But Sandor has never been that type of man. He’s far too honest to consider tweaking his personality to ensnare another. Those who sculpt themselves into what they think another person wants always fail; living a lie never works. They only do it because they think love has to be this perfect amalgamation of twin souls.

 

Which it is, just that one or both of those souls don’t have to rewrite themselves. Fuck’s sake. Love is love. It accepts flaws. It understands differences. It thrives upon challenge, and knowledge, and personal growth.

 

Apparently.

 

Sometimes Sandor wonders if he is just a highly cynical romantic, or a sickeningly romantic cynic. He lost his innocent view of the world when Gregor melted his face and murdered their little sister, but still, neglected and starved, softer bits do still exist.

 

“Why’re you fucking soaking the shit out the car?” Best focus on something else that isn’t wallowing in ridiculous soppiness.

 

“Sansa was freezing, poor girl. I gave her my fleece.”

 

“I should’ve given her something to wear. Fuck’s sake.”

 

His friend snorts. “Sandor. You’re wearing a shirt. If you whipped that off and wrapped her in your manly Clegane pheromones, she’d have fainted once more. You’d be cold and pissed off that you’d have to go around shirtless, and she’d be unconscious and unable to bake. Logistics, mate. Logistics.”

 

Sandor reaches back, finds a well-gnawed extra-tough Stranger slobbered-on toy bone, and smacks Beric across the back of his head.

 

The squeak it gives is pathetic. The squeak Beric gives isn’t much better.

 

* * *

 

Coming up to the Showstopper, everything is to play for. Since the tent has been reduced to bakers who are all feasibly in with a chance of winning the entire series, the standard skyrockets.

 

Roulades roll beautifully, crack-less and lightly sponged. Marjolaine - which Oberyn swears is the name of a woman with whom he’s slept - fluffs meringue-ily and ganache-y. Sansa ends up with some on her nose. Sandor manages to stop himself licking his fingers, cleaning up the snubness with a shaking hand. She’s wearing one of Margie’s shirts, which is a little bit too tight on her chest, and he spends the entire time it takes to film the episode staring resolutely at her forehead.

 

Walda. Sweet, clever, Walda, manages not to mention her foetus, let alone wave around photos.

 

It’s all rather jolly despite the rain and Sandor’s early meltdown. One by one they all, with the exception of Ramsay, come and chat with him. Willas donates a mouthful of gin from a hip flask that looks suspiciously Dornish. Pod chats happily about dogs. Oberyn flirts, as always. Walda mothers, as usual, though she keeps touching his forearm excitedly. Sansa gazes up with huge blue eyes as if she’s just seen the actual Stranger materialise in full glory before her. Which possibly He has.

 

Because Sandor’s shirt got covered in blood, and they had to improvise.

 

Usually he’s in crisp smart cotton, collared and rolled up to the elbow to expose his ridiculously attractive forearms. It’s a look, Varys tells him, that is both smart enough to look dressy for television, and casual enough to appear both friendly and ‘hip.’ Varys is a cunt, and does ‘air fingers’ around ‘certain words.’

 

However. Blood, and sweat, and metaphorical tears. Some mud. Shirt ruined.

 

“What the fuck can I wear instead? I’ve got nothing.”

 

So Sandor ends up wearing Bronn’s spare t-shirt. Which, unlike his usual comfy rather baggy ones of choice, doesn’t leave anything to the imagination.

 

If t-shirts were things, then this one would be a spray tan. Bronn’s a few inches shorter, a few inches leaner. The man’s got a good body, but it isn’t as massively bulky and obnoxiously enormous as six and a half foot of sulking Clegane.

 

It clings. A lot.

 

If the reaction towards the Nice Shirt a few episodes before tended towards the encouraging, Sandor in tight black stretchy soft cotton - with a v-neck showing muscle and chest hair, and the interlinking black dog tattoos on his bicep, and not so much hinting at abdominal muscles but screaming, celebrating, throwing a massive celebration for their very existence - was good, then this one is? Well.

 

“Ah. I have lost. How can a man concentrate upon mousse when such a chest is flaunted?”

 

“Can you give me pointers? I’d love to look like that in a t-shirt.”

 

“...bitch, please.”

 

“Gosh. Wow. I’m just. How do keep so fit with all this baking around?!”

 

“Sandor! You’re so gorgeous! If it wasn’t for my Leechy, I’d be so in love with you.” Walda can make even simple sentences sound as if she’s attached a smiley to the end of them.

 

Sansa merely holds a jar of lemon curd and watches, wide-eyed, forgetting to start baking until Margie gives her a gentle nudge.

 

* * *

 

“So, Walda.” Yara grins. “How’s everything going with you?”

 

Sandor doesn’t like her expression. Greyjoys are shitstirrers. Always have been. Always will. It’s something to do with the atmosphere on Pyke, where everyone tries to kill each other on a daily basis, or plunder, or ravage, or go full Reaver. Never go to the cheaper tourist resorts along the Essosi south coast; they’re packed full of holidaying and very drunk Iron Islanders that default back to the madness of their ancestors. Lots of being sick, drinking too much, trying to seduce the locals into being salt wives, and then going swimming at stupid o’clock in the morning to try and invoke the Drowned God.

 

No wonder Essosi lifeguards are paid so much.

 

“Wonderful! I’m making blackberry coulis mousse with some apple thins. It’ll be like a summer fruits picnic! Roosey adores summer fruits. We go fruit picking, and he’s so good at finding the sweet tart ones!”

 

Yara’s lips move in a peculiarly amused way, for today Walda’s wearing a rather low cut top that shows off her frankly wondrous cleavage. It’s the sort that people can get lost in, happily, and never find their way out. Labyrinths have nothing upon that glorious pillowy bosom.

 

Walda’s fan base is a strange thing. Half of it are other women from the Women’s Institute who appreciate her down-to-earth, back-to-basics style of baking. They admire her using tried and tested recipes, and making them well, rather than going utterly experimental and modern. They support good, homely, old-fashioned cooking that Mums make. Demographically, they’re a good bit older than her - she could be their daughter, grand-daughter - but she’s so warm and effusive that her age doesn’t put them off whatsoever.

 

Her other fans, the slightly more Roose-creepy ones, are gentlemen perhaps a decade or two older than her who, to be frank, appreciate the more buxom lady. Her curves, according to certain areas of a rather embarrassed Twitter who doesn’t like being used for porny purposes against actual people (celebrities? Fine. They get paid for it), are dangerous. They’ve taken to wearing t-shirts printed with road signs that proclaim she possesses lethal bends.

 

Every so often, several dozen of these Twitter accounts go suddenly quiet, as if they’ve been murdered in their prime by someone who might not wish for perverts to be speaking about someone that they hold very dear to their heart.

 

After each cull, Roose Bolton Tweets nothing but a link to the House Bolton Wikipedia page; specifically the part lovingly written (by a user named flay4pay) about the family’s ancient practice of collecting the hides of their enemies.

 

“That sounds super,” Olenna adds, neatly interrupting Yara. “I see you’re using cassis?”

 

“Only a teensy drop.”

 

“Is that because of the bab-?"

 

“Strength,” Margie, good girl, interjects. Anything to stop Greyjoy harping on about the foetus. Anything to not remind Walda to whip out her bump scan. “Such a strong liqueur, isn’t it?”

 

“It can be eye-watering, but it’s so sweet and yummy.”

 

“Have you got anything in the oven?” She’s determined, is Yara. Some people want to watch the world burn, after all. She wants to bathe in the blood that’d be Walda versus Ramsay, like some baking-focussed Elizabeth Bathory. It happens every series. Yara’s instigated many things, though she wasn’t entirely the reason that Infamous Series Six became, well. Infamous. However, having two Greyjoys on set seemed to create this perfect storm of fuckery. Just having two Greyjoys within ten miles of each other creates a sort of fuckery whirlpool that swallows all before it.

 

“Oh no! This is a cold pudding, I don’t need to bake anything.” A wide smile, cheeks pink. “I’m so looking forward you you getting some in your mouth! I wish Brienne was still here. She loves blackberries. Or is it blackcurrants?”

 

“Can we see your foe-?”

  
“Filo.” Sandor this time, because they’re a team, fuck Yara, and fuck Varys. Why? Because that’s the theme of this series. Baking and fucking Varys. Not with body parts, but in every other way. Though, given the perversion of their producer, it’d probably end up turning him on.

 

Ugh.

 

Mystified at them all, Walda’s beaming expression falters, momentarily, before coming back with a demented vengeance. “I think you’re confusing my pudding for Pod’s. Mine’s got a buttery biscuit base.”

 

“A buttery biscuit base?”

 

“Yep!”

 

“Thanks so much, Walda - good lu-”

 

“Oh!” She flaps, almost as camp as Varys with excitement, before scrabbling at a polypocket she’s carefully concealed below the work surface. “I said I’d show you, and I almost forgot with the excitement of everything. How silly of me! I don’t know. If my head wasn’t screwed on, I’m sure I’d lose it!”

 

Time slows, for Sandor, for the second time that day. He decides, given the accompanying sense of impending doom, that he doesn’t like the sensation. In slow motion Walda’s plump little hand removes a glossy printed copy of the twenty week scan, reverently holds it up.

 

“This is me and Leechy’s baby.” Pride turns her beautiful, even if the world shatters like crystal and gently tinkles about her with every single word she utters. No one can be that thick, really? No one can think parading a picture of a baby that’s going to loved, cherished, and adored in front of a criminally jealous psychopath with Daddy issues a good thing? Surely?

 

“How lovely.” Yara, who is evil - truly evil. Anarchistic evil at that - leans in, shows the camera, gives Walda a side hug.

 

The entire tent grinds to a standstill. Some turn their attention to Walda, half-horrified, half-thrilled - shocked at her idiocy combined with pleasure at her happiness - while the other lot, the more pragmatic ones, carefully watch Ramsay.

 

He’s very white, and over-whipping his cream. Ramsay never over-whips his cream.

 

The way he’s standing is reminiscent of a human grenade; one that someone’s easing the pin from with careful, almost deliberate tugs.

 

Is Walda doing this on purpose? Is this sweet confused young woman act just that? An act? Could this all be a clever ploy to have Ramsay disgrace himself, be banished from Roose Bolton’s life, and then take all of his attention, money, and prestige for herself? Could someone be that good an actress?

 

She smiles softly at Yara. “Roose always wanted a son, an heir. Now he’s finally got one!”

 

The art of thinking before speaking never quite clicks with Walda. Unfortunately.

 

* * *

 

The food mixer is the first thing to go. Ramsay mercifully turns the switch off before ripping the plug from the wall and just throwing the entire set up. Pod dodges with reflexes that he shouldn’t truly have, takes cover behind Willas’ workbench with the other bakers.

 

“We should stop filming-”

 

Purple insinuates itself next to Beric, shot through with the delicate scent of jasmine and lavender. “Stop filming, darling, and let’s see how hard I can get you blacklisted.” Varys gives that tiny arsey smile of his. The one that means Trouble. Lots of it.

 

“He’s going to hurt someone.” Seriously? Is Beric the only sane person on the entire production crew?

 

“Keep. Filming. Put that sexy warzone action hero _schtick_ into play if you must.”

 

Hating Varys is easy; Beric exists upon a wobbly plane of admiring the man for his skill, his Machiavellian brilliance, his ability to ride ruthlessly over everything to get a job done. Appreciating these skills does not mean he likes the man. They’re friends, in a strange manner, but as has been pointed out to him in the past, Dondarrion is, by default, a mate of everyone he meets. He has the sort of good sort charisma that creates natural leaders of men. Having Varys consider you a friend is nothing when you’re Beric. It just is.

 

“When he kills someone?”

 

“Beautifully directed footage for the court case, dearheart.”

 

Hate turns to loathing. Loathing turns to disgust.

 

“Turn the cameras of-”

 

“Switch off, darling,” and lips find his ear rather too intimately, “and I’ll fire the crew. Not you. I’ll keep you in purgatory, love, making tawdry reality television shows about the _Real Housewives of the Three Hills_. I’ll fire everyone, from the make up girls to sexy Bronn, make them entirely unemployable, and it’ll be your fault. Now. Be a good boy for Mummy and keep filming.”

 

This is usually about the time where he thinks about setting fire to everything and going Full R’hllor on the world. However, everything’s so soggy, and there isn’t an obvious source of fire given the hobs are electric rather than gas, and the crew employment situation is more important than his own morality and ego, so Beric grits his teeth and helplessly allows it all to play out before him.

 

“He’s got an heir, you fucking fat bitch.”

 

Walda makes a sound like a sobbing turkey, hand at her throat. “Oh. Ramsay. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean-”

 

Yet another mixing bowl smashes, followed by one of those really expensive Pyrex jugs. It’s made of the same sort of safety glass Sandor put his hand through, and it’s a measure of Clegane’s strength that Ramsay can’t get the bloody thing to break even if he picks it up twice and throws it again. Snarling, he kicks it with a steel toecap, sending the object squirreling across the carpeting.

 

“Ramsay, calm down,” someone says, and it sets the man twisting like some feral beast.

 

“Calm down? Why should I-? Of course, I’m embarrassing Daddy, aren’t I? It wouldn’t do for Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, to be ashamed of his son, would it? Poor Daddy Dearest. I’m sure he’s heartbroken.” He considers the contents of his workbench with a critical artist’s eye and lobs a packet of butter. It explodes quite dramatically, spattering the crew with bits of grease and fat. One of them, who happens to be a born-again vegan, faints quietly.

 

“I’m so sorry!” Walda stumbles forward, frantic eyed. Olenna tries to grab her by the arm, but she’s no match for a woman wanting to soothe a hurting child, and before they can physically stop her, she’s trying to get to Ramsay to hug it all better.

 

Beric’s mouth twitches. He tries not to laugh inappropriately as Bolton backs away, horrified. His soon to be stepmother is far larger though, and his workbench is at the back, so he’s cornered easily.

 

“Don’t come near me!”

 

“Please? It’s your little brother, Ramsay? He’ll look up to you, he’ll love you. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t! I’m sooooo soooooooorry!”

 

There are certain women who, when they sob, sound like a chorus in a Braavosi opera, written by very clever, very dull men who have a slight hard-on for fascists. Walda is one of these august valkyries. She wails, siren-like, hands scrabbling at Ramsay’s _Dragon Age: Inquisition_ t-shirt, wrapping in the fabric, dragging the angry Hobbit unto her copious bosom.

 

“Get her off me!”

 

It’d be an impressive shriek if Ramsay wasn’t muffled by acres of cleavage as he’s wrapped into the sort of cuddle that can either mean sheer bliss or suffocation. Hands flail, and for a moment everything is hilarious. Yes, Varys was right not to cancel the filming. This is pure television gold. Walda and Ramsay must have set this up between them, for maximum mayhem, and in a moment they’ll just start laughing for basically trolling the entire team and other bakers for the past weeks. Hilarious. Beric’ll go over, congratulate Ramsay, and be able to have lots of guilt-free sex.

 

Something sounding rather like ‘fuck’s sake’ emerges from near Walda’s neck, and Ramsay, running out of oxygen, takes matters into his own teeth, and chomps down with vigour on her quivering flesh.

 

Walda screeches, hits a note that sends the glassware in the tent reverberating worryingly, finally lets go of a swaying, greyish Bolton who props himself against his own workbench.

 

“He bit me!”

 

“Of course I bit you, you psychotic lard-arsed pregnant land whale! I was going to die, murdered by your ridiculous tits!” Another white-toothed sharkish growl, teeth snapping, sets Walda wailing.

 

Walda is a screamer.

 

“Think of the baby.” Margie tugs at the woman’s arm, trying to shut her up. “You have to be calm. We can’t have the baby injured, can we?”

 

Ramsay’s weird gaze flickers at the word ‘baby.’

 

Oh. Shit. Carving knife. He’s looking at the bloody carving knife-.

 

“Sandor. Get her back.”

 

Regressing back to being Sergeant Dondarrion proves to be surprisingly easy. Beric assesses in half a second, calls out orders in the sort of tone that has everyone obeying him; soldier!Dondarrion is naturally far more strident than his director counterpart even if he is a relic from more than a decade before. Responding admirably, Sandor drags the soon to be Mrs. Bolton towards the relative safety of Sansa’s bench. Of course it’s Sansa’s bench. When there Clegane plants himself in front of the bakers, like a bouncer protecting his VIPs from mere mortals, though Oberyn keeps dashing around him to watch what’s going on before being gently encouraged back to the No Ramsay Zone by Willas’ kindly entreaties.

 

Cuddling happens. Oberyn is apparently so very brave that he ends up wrapped in Willas’ embrace. Of course his hands find the pert Tyrellian backside and lightly caress.

 

Yara, still grinning with the vicious excitement of her ancestors, shepherds Olenna, who is appalled by her grandson being manhandled, and Margaery, who is conversely thrilled that Willas is finally getting a bit of action, away. Greyjoy, that lesbian of squiddish-tentacled hellgod demonic tendencies, fizzes with it all, hopping from foot to foot, obviously off her face on drama and shenanigans and skullduggery.

 

Then, as Twitter is on the edge of it’s seat and positively vibrating with it all like a giant continent sized sex toy, The Director appears to wrangle the errant Bolton.

 

He is not as Twitter envisioned him. He is neither Hiddleston or Cumberbatch. Idris Elba or Daniel Craig. Certainly not Eddie Redmayne. The Director is tall, and wickedly scarred, and portly. He wears an eyepatch. A fucking eyepatch! Shorts and hiking boots. He’s got amazing rugby player legs, and is really bloody ginger. Someone dreamily calls him strawberry blond, and gets mocked mercilessly for weeks afterwards.

 

Wait. What the-?

 

...hang on?

 

Twitter thinks. It puts on the little Thinking Hat and considers. Why? Because The Director looks more than a little familiar.

 

Google and IMDB are utilised by the more industrious users who then go on to disseminate the information they unearth in overexcited tweets. YouTube clips of television news filmed perhaps ten years previously, on a rival channel, are linked. The people who posted them, who don’t even know _Bake Off_ exists, wonder why they start getting thousands of hits. In these old clips, not at all HD and rather crackly around the edges, The Director stands authoritative and handsome and romantically wears a flak jacket with PRESS written on it in big white letters. No eyepatch back then, because he’d not been shot yet, but rakish scars still emerge from the collar of his shirt. Gunfire intersperses his report from the Qohor warzone, and he merely looks into the camera and grins quite charmingly.

 

“They’ve tried to shoot us twice today, and have not yet succeeded. The rebel elements here in Qohor do not seem to hold international news corporations in high esteem.”

 

Wikipedia yields more fascinating information. #shotthroughtheface piques the interest of those who aren’t even bothered about _Bake Off_. After all, it’s a pretty interesting hashtag.

 

Not, however, as interesting as a soldier turned reporter turned director approaching a short man armed with a carving knife and a small cream-covered whisk.

 

“Hey Ramsay.”

 

Bolton, knife gleaming evilly in his Hobbity hand, glowers.

 

“I never could break safety glass either,” he says rather conversationally, poking the Pyrex jog with his hiking booted toe. “Apart from when I got blown up the second time. Then I managed to take out an entire store front with my torso. Should see the scars.”

 

The glower changes, imperceptibly. “The second time?”

 

“The first time was a tiny landmine. The second was an IED. The third time,” and he rests his hip against the corner of Ramsay’s work bench, smiling to himself, “was when I actually killed a tank.”

 

“How the hells did you kill a tank, bitch? By sitting on it?” Ramsay enjoys pointing out the flaws of people because he’s both an internet troll and an unpleasant sort of person. Apparently fat is an insult, but it never hurts Beric. It’s just a descriptor, and he refuses to give the word power. He is fat. Just like Sandor’s scarred, Olenna’s geriatric, Yara’s butch, and Ramsay’s short. 

 

“Sitting on things, Ramsay, is for pleasure. Not for war.”

 

The malevolence of Bolton’s grin is singularly impressive. “Bet you sit on everything, don’t you? Bet you love it.”

 

“Chairs, settees, car seats-” Beric matches the evil merely by deepening that tiny warm smile of his, the hint of a dimple threatening. “Why don’t you put the knife down?”

 

“Because I don’t want to. It’s for flaying bitches, after all, and I’m a very good Bolton and you’re a very good bitch. Maybe when I’ve worked out my anger upon various parts of the studio, I can work out my more pressing issues on you. Bitch.”

 

“My, Ramsay. It sounds like you’re propositioning me.”

 

He doesn’t allow Ramsay the pleasure of getting at him, because Dondarrion, very deep down, likes deflating Bolton’s little balloon of power play. It seems like no one’s ever done that before, and that’s fascinating.

 

Pale eyes meet Beric’s golden gaze, sharp and glittering like the shards that he pulled from Sandor’s knuckles. They assess, they absorb, and he’s suddenly very aware that Ramsay is far more intelligent, more manipulative, than he’s ever let on. Others would quail with the knowledge. Others would flee. However Beric, who enjoys dangerous situations so much that he’s died more than once, wants to poke the crazy. He’s never met someone quite like Ramsay. It’s like Sherlock meeting Moriarty; of course he should be revolted, but the intrigue and fascination is overwhelming.

 

Beric might or might not be a massive fan of Sherlock/Moriarty fanfic. He’s definitely an enormous consumer of anything with Lestrade and Mycroft. Especially the fics where the police-issued handcuffs make an appearance. He and Brienne swapped author recommendations.

 

...no wonder he wants Ramsay to tie him down and do things. Bloody hells.

 

And of course Bolton knows. He’s grinning now, canines pointed, and bitey. What would it be like to be bitten by Ramsay? Angry, probably, in a really rather sexy sort of way.

 

“I’ll give you the knife, if you give me something. Deal?”

 

“...what do you want?” Reality comes flooding back with the proposition as adrenaline, previously coursing through his veins, decides to bugger off from whence it came. Beric’s left feeling a bit limp, and cold, and uncomfortable. In his younger days he’d be sailing on that high for hours, days, but he’s older, and less prone to youthful madnesses - though they still happen in a more middle-aged sort of way - and therefore the stimulant wears off far too quickly for his own tastes. Rather like erections, because they’re never dependable these days either.

 

Being eyed up like a piece of meat is both creepy - this is Ramsay, he’s the second creepiest man in Westeros after Roose Bolton - and oddly alluring. This is the nearest he’s got to sex for years, damn it all. Because this is what it is leading up to. Sex. Not even for the good of the show sex, but some really hardcore and hopefully interestingly kinky sex for the good of everyone involved. This is basically rather bizarre foreplay. Maybe sex’ll keep Ramsay calmer, more levelled? Maybe Beric’ll just have to sacrifice his body, not at all unwillingly, to prevent Bolton nuclear explosions decimating everything?

 

Beric girds his loins and other parts, prepares to submit cheerfully to Ramsay’s perversion.

 

“Neck rub. Now. Bitch.”

 

Oh. Bugger.

 

Disappointed, Beric slinks behind Bolton, lays his hands on the tightly-knotted shoulders, and gets to work.

 

* * *

 

“This week has been a rollercoaster of emotion, and we’ve been on quite the ride-.” Margaery pauses as Walda puts her hand up politely. Her other is held by the gentlemanly Pod, who rubs his thumb across the back of her knuckles with great care and murmurs occasionally about baby clothes and nurseries.

 

“Sorry Margie! I just need to say, before you say who’s going.”

 

“Of course, Walda.”

 

“I just wanted to say that I’ve had the best time here, despite me being so silly and not truly thinking about how other people feel. I’ve made lovely friends! Brienne, and all the girls, and Willas and Pod, and everyone else. You’ve been so kind, and wonderful. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done! It really is. But I think it’s time for me to leave the tent, now.”

 

Across the film set, and the continent, a stunned silence descends.

 

“But Walda-”

 

“No, I just know it’ll get more stressful, and Margaery, you are right. I’ve got to look out for Bump more than a competition. I know I’m a great baker, and I’m so proud to have made it so far! Roosey,” and her expression softens, “is so proud of me, whatever happens. Family is so important, isn’t it? Even if sometimes we don’t really get on, and with my family, there are so many of us that at least half of us are arguing at any given point! But I think, for family, for my son, and for Roose, and.”

 

Walda pauses, her eyes over-bright and filling with tears.

 

“For Ramsay, too. Because I see now he’s my son, as well. And even though we’ve started off on the wrong foot, I still love him because Roosey is his Daddy, and that makes Ramsay half of the man I love and that’s so important! I just would like everyone to be happy, and Ramsay has so much to give! He’s so brilliant at baking, and he wants this more than I do, maybe he needs it more than anyone else, and maybe, when this is all over, we could bake a bit together? We could get to know each other better, and we can be friends? Just a bit?”

 

Bolton, on his usual stool on the very peripheral of the group, visibly and murderously twitches, but whatever Beric’s magical hands did to his neck - reiki massage is often used by followers of R’hllor to encourage healing chakras and calm relaxation, as well as discourage people from setting fire to random things by turning them to jam - he’s too blissed out to do anything apart from glare.

 

“Oh, Walda.” Margaery sniffles prettily. "You're so lovely."

 

“Can we have the group hug part now? That’s my favourite part.” Walda’s eyes sparkle. “I get to give Sandor’s bum a good squeeze!”

 

* * *

 

“Was she going?” Beric demolishes a tiny red and black mousse cake in two bites, licking his sticky fingers clean. There are ten left, and in precisely thirty seconds, he manages to scoff four more.

 

“No. Oberyn was.”

 

They lie flat on the floor in the usual place behind Sansa’s workbench, idly listening to the pattering of the rain upon the thick cream canvas overhead. Sandor’s t-shirt keeps riding up, to his chagrin, and he spends half his time trying to tuck the bloody thing into his jeans and failing miserable. Instead, Beric utilises those wondrous abs as an easily accessible table, balancing the plate half on skin and half on cotton.

 

“Not Ramsay?”

 

“He didn’t stab anyone to death. He didn’t shag you over the hob. He didn’t swear. It’ll edit down alright.”

 

The unspoken _Varys wants the ratings to continue_ trembles between them.

 

Sandor inserts a splodge of prosecco flavoured sponge into his mouth, hums pleasurably at the hint of bubbles and Sansa.

 

“It’s the death wish getting off on danger shit, isn’t it? Why you want to fuck him? He’s as close to Qohor that you can ever find in another human being.”

 

It’s never right, Clegane being perceptive. It sits uncomfortable and ill on Beric’s head, like a gremlin that tries to eat his brains. Or, at least, what’s left of them. Sandor, for all his faults, understands more about people than he lets on.

 

“Probably. Qohor was such an enormous part of my life. I ended up there when I was sixteen, finally got air-vacced out ten years later. There’s always part of me there, I suppose-”

 

“Skull fragments and your fucking sanity, mostly.” Delicately eviscerating the sponge-mousse combo with large but dextrous fingers, Sandor isolates the alcoholic bits and slurps them down with a certain vigour.

 

“This isn’t about me,” he points out, changing the subject so it doesn’t focus upon Beric’s tendency to leap into dangerous situations because he’s purely an adrenaline junkie who yearns to be back in the Forces where he belonged. “None of this is about me. You’re the star of the whole bloody show, Sandy, and we should be trying to get you sorted out, shouldn’t we?” No one mentioned why Clegane wore black stretch tubular bandage over his hand. Every so often Beric feels the need to go and check the wounds, douse everything in antiseptic, and blather on about wound care. Someone has to, otherwise Sandor’d neglect himself to the point of gangrene. When he’s that snarling black dog of a man, truly in the depths, he’s quite likely to berate himself to the point of self-abuse.

 

Not that sort of self abuse.

 

“She let me protect her,” Sandor mumbles, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “From your fucking shortarsed cunt. She touched me.”

 

“Where?”

 

“In the tent.” Sandor grins, all teeth, remembering their last tent-bound conversation. “No, on the back. Small of my back. She’s got tiny delicate fingers. She fucking touched me, even if I terrified the shit out of her. That’s good, yeah?”

 

Beric chuckles. “Yes, Sandor. That’s good.”

 

Clegane should smile often in that stunned, slightly goofy way that sends him a little pink on his cheeks. He deserves a little happiness, even if it is only because a girl isn’t terrified of him. Gods bless Sansa. All Seven of them.

 

* * *

 


	8. Week 8: Hot Water Crust Pies, Tudor Biscuits, and Marzipan

* * *

 

 

“I always thought I’d get on well with Good Queen Alys.” Tudor Week. Pies are to be had. Lovely lovely pies. Beric, as is expected, eats them all.

 

“She’d stay a virgin with you around, you big gay. Gingers get on well with other gingers. Genetics and shit.” Sandor’s forearms ripple as he brings the hot water crust pastry together into a ball, fingers slick with lard and fats. “You bond over fucking hair colour.”

 

“Says the man in love with a woman with ging-”

 

“She. Is. Not. Ginger.” The words come as a growl, elongated and gruff. “She’s auburn.” He doesn’t say that he’s not in love with Sansa though. It’s adorably Sandorishly cute. Even though his friend is tall, scarred, and intimidating, he can be somewhat soppy.

 

Beric examines the beef stew that’s been cooking down for the last three hours into a divine gloop of perfectly soft stewing steak, neatly chunked root vegetables, a touch of mace for authentic Tudor flavour. “Want me to see if it wants more seasoning?”

 

“Stop arsing about with saying you want to try it for seasoning. You’re just a greedy fat bastard who wants food in his gob.” Another flex of those forearms, another dance of the Clegane tattooed dogs peeping under the short sleeve of his t-shirt. “Just fucking get a bowl if you’re that needy. Auburn’s different. Ginger’s more orange. Auburn’s more brunette.”

 

“Ramsay says I’m strawberry blond.” He casually slips that in, like he casually slipped in the going to the pub for a drink with their resident murderbaker, and how he didn’t get home - to Sandor’s, not to his own house, because he never really lives there during the months of filming - until eleven the next morning. He’s not said anything about not having sex with Ramsay yet. They just got drunk, Bolton ended up talking at length and rather slurringly about his Daddy issues before getting an urge to go and play _Call of Duty_ at 3am, and Beric ended up watching, giving another neck rub, and being called a bitch until they both passed out. Ramsay let him have a go on the computer game, on a separate account so Dondarrion didn’t screw with his scores. Just the once. It wasn’t that Beric was awful; quite the opposite. He went all Sergeant on the teenagers he was thrown in with, ended up with this elite fighting force, and pretty much managed to be perfect throughout.

 

Ramsay says he’s not allowed to play again. Ramsay being jealous is bloody hilarious.

 

Sandor does not know this. Sandor thinks they shagged like bunnies. Beric hasn’t put him out of his horrified misery yet in regards to the truth because his HiLux window cost a fair few dragons to fix, even if he did claim on the insurance.

 

“Colourblind as well as being a cunt then, isn’t he?”

 

The stew is lovely; warming, and filling, and he finds the heel of a loaf of bread and starts dunking with abandon. Everything is so homey and comfortable until his phone starts merring singing ‘ _Be Prepared_ ’  from _The Lion King_.

 

As one, they freeze. Even Stranger, snoring in his usual happy place of under the table, whimpers softly in his sleep.

 

Answering is the only option.

 

“Varys. What can I do for you?”

 

_“Beric. My dear.”_

 

Sandor’s fist turns the hereto perfectly combined pastry to a pathetic soggy mush.

 

_“We have a guest on set this week.”_

 

“Oh?”

 

_“Mance is thrilled to be-”_

 

“Mance Rayder?”

 

_“Do you know of any other Mance, Beric?”_

 

The pastry disappears into Clegane’s vast grip once more, re-emerging as a destructively minced and useless bit of hot water crust dough fit for no purpose whatsoever apart from possibly shoving down the throats of producers.

 

“Can I ask why Mance Rayder is going to be visiting _Bake Off?_ ” He doesn’t usually narrate his conversations, but since he’s with Sandor who’ll grill him menacingly at the end of it, it’s best to feed snippets of information during the call to appease the nosy one.

 

_“Contract year, dearheart. We either encourage the WBC to give us obscene amounts of gold to keep us, or we run away romantically with the rugged Mance Rayder to pastures greener. Of course you understand that his visit must go smoothly, Dondarrion. You know what will happen if this doesn’t work out the way I expect, I am sure. Do keep Sandor on his leash, though given your evening with our erstwhile resident sadist, I’m sure you’d rather be the one collared.”_

 

“...”

 

_“I’ll not tell Sandor you didn’t sleep with Ramsay. We can have an in joke. I’ve always wanted an in-joke with another human being. We can tease the poor man with the thought of you being tied up and shagged by Short and Dangerous, can’t we?”_

 

“...!”

 

_“Anyway, I must go and wake Mance. We had such a busy night, last night, and the stamina of these outdoor pursuit boys does wear a girl out. Ciao, bella.”_

 

Beric drops the phone because the kissy noises are traumatic to say the least. It’s a testament to the rubberised army-style case he’s got on the bloody thing that nothing shatters on the heavy slate tiled surface of Clegane’s kitchen. It merely bounces and misses Stranger’s water bowl by a measly inch. It’s tempting to drown the handset, considering what he’s just been told.

 

“By the Seven, Sandy. He’s shagging Mance Rayder.”

 

“That’s why the bastard wants to go to Channel 4. The absolute fucker!”

 

Somehow it makes sense. Varys sleeps with Hot Pie. Hot Pie becomes the most well-known and adored baker in Westeros. Varys shags Mance Rayder. The highest rated and most watched show in Westeros possibly switches to the rival television channel that is employing the Chief Scout and once (possibly still) sex symbol. Hot Pie leaving, and Mance being mentioned so often? Maybe Varys, and Beric, who adores gossip, dives into his theory with a certain obsessive though horrified relish, was cheating on Hot Pie with Rayder, and that’s why they were having those arguments? That’s why they broke up?

 

He retrieves his phone, wipes it on his trousers, scrolls through, finds Hot Pie’s personal number. Maybe he should just text, to see if the baker is alright? Get the low-down on what’s going happening? Bitch about Varys to someone who understands? Maybe pop over for tea and a cake? However much Sandor tries, he never has the lightness of touch with choux pastry that Hot Pie has. Beric could murder a profiterole right about now. Several. Swimming in pouring cream.

 

“If you fucked Varys,” Sandor says, his voice rough and verging on the explosive, “because you’re fat enough for him, maybe he’ll keep _Bake Off_ on the _WBC_?”

 

“...I am not sleeping with Varys. I have standards.” Shoving the phone, incriminating with that certain name, in his jeans pocket. Any mention of Hot Pie sends Clegane stratospheric.

 

Sandor stalks forward, throws the dead pastry in the bin, places large greasy hands on Beric’s once pristine and now obviously ruined shirt shoulders. “Says the wanker sleeping with Bolton.”

 

Dammit. Dondarrion hates it when Clegane has a point.

 

* * *

 

Olenna looks up from her gin; given the slight pinkness of her sclera, it is not the first one that she’s had that morning by far. Right and Left lurk attentively. One holds a soft tartan blanket, ready to wrap about their geriatric mistress’ shoulders if she gets chilly, while the other sports a silver tea tray upon which sit the requisite bottle of the favoured juniper drink and a number of cans of tonic water. The bottle is almost empty.

 

“Help yourself, Sandor. We’ll all need to be tipsy to deal with Varys today. He’s insufferable. He’s even shaking off my insults, which is appalling.” It is impressive that Olenna never seems tipsy. Margaery says her liver is made out of iron and bloody mindedness.

 

“Got anything not gin?” 

 

“Margaery has wine. Yara has beer. Beric has grit-toothed determination and is being angelic to everyone even if it destroys his conscience. What does Varys have on the boy?”

 

He shrugs, pulls up a chair, plonks himself down. What harm can there be telling Olenna that Varys is a fuckmongoose, because they all know that he is? He’s a slimy bastard who wants to sell them all out to Channel fucking 4 because he’s screwing Mance bloody Rayder. Who, Sandor privately thinks, is far too butch for their producer’s normal tastes.

 

“What is even more irksome is that Mance Rayder is a dear. Stoic. Hideously enthusiastic. Gods, I loathe the man.”

 

“He’s threatened Beric with getting everyone fucking sacked. Varys is fucking Rayder. S’all I’ve got.”

 

She does a perfect cat’s bum face, mouth purse and wrinkled. “That would make sense. There’s so much arm in arm going on. Given that, I would hope that he’s just showing his new boyfriend the set before disappearing to a nearby hotel to be buggered senseless, but I am sure you know more?”

 

“All about the money with Varys. Beric pointed out he’s got a history of promoting the shit out of the people he’s nailing.”

 

Olenna runs a moistened fingertip about the rim of her crystal glass to make it sing, looking thoughtful.

 

“A shame that Beric is infatuated with that awful Ramsay - I would have blackmailed him into rogering Varys and ending all this nonsense. How does one even blackmail someone as calm as Beric? Even I’d feel grubby, Clegane. If it were Loras here, I’d order him to seduce Mance Rayder and be done with it that way. Willas hasn’t the same ability to attract men, even if he allows himself to be pawed at by that Martell boy. Unseemly, yes. A handsome and powerful couple they shall make, however - I have come to terms with his preferences and I’m sure that a homosexual love story will play very well, as will my charming acceptance of yet another gay grandson - and at least Margaery is fertile and heterosexual enough to provide heirs to Highgarden. Especially now that she likes that chubby Podrick boy, rather than that unsuitable Bronn. I was on the verge of having him killed, Clegane. Killed.”

 

“I’d laugh, but I fucking know you too well to know if it’s a joke or not.”

 

“Clever boy.” She leans over, pats his knee. Her skin is paper and the sort of slightly talc-sweetness of a true old woman. “Baking is indeed a cut-throat world, Sandor. You and I know this more than anyone. We cannot all rely on effeminate homosexuals to place us on the nation’s pedestals, can we? Hard work, cunning, and ruthlessness willout.”

 

* * *

 

Fingers touch his arm, over naked muscle. Today’s shirt of choice, as directed by Beric, is a rich dark Rioja with extra stretch to fit over his shoulders. Sandor thinks makes his scars look extra fucking horrible. After he’s primped and painted by the makeup department, he looks rather less like a lawnmower’s chewed his face up, and the redness doesn’t accentuate the ruin of his cheek. Thank fuck.

 

“How’s your hand?”

 

Thank the Stranger for warm weather. Sansa’s wearing shorts.

 

All's right with the world, despite it not being. They’re not short shorts, or long shorts, just short length shorts in a faded black denim that hit at mid thigh and accentuate the creamy wonder of her endless legs. They come up high on her torso, sit just under her ribs. Lots of buttons. The itch to fiddle with one rises, but Sandor contains himself. Mostly. He fights back the urge, admires how the crisp white cotton shirt causes her chestnut - fuck Beric for not knowing simple colour wheels, and why red and blue undertones are different, the twat - hair to reach towards a redness that dominates his entire psyche. Her toenails are the same soft hue as her nails, as her lipstick.

 

“S’alright. I heal up pretty quick.”

 

“Can I see?” Concern turns her milky and soft, all wet rose-pink lips and long eyelashes.

 

“It’s not that bad.” He’ll scar. Not that it makes any bloody difference since he exists in a state of skin being held together with variously healed patches of silver and red. The wounds tend towards the bluntly forced into his skin rather than clean slices, as if he managed to, with sheer stupidity, pebbledash his hand. They’re deep, and still a little tender, but they’re getting there with Beric’s mothering, Sandor’s ability to keep the damage scrupulously clean. He’s a bloody baker. He washes his hands approximately eighteen times a day because he’s paranoid about fucking up and poisoning people with shitty hygiene.

 

Sansa’s cheeks flush as she examines his hand, her fingers wrapping lightly and carefully around his undamaged wrist. Warm. Soft. Like a kitten. Soft kitten, warm kitten, little Sansa Bird. Shit. No. Kittens eat birds. Fuck kittens. Birds are better. Sweetly singing birds with blue eyes and lips that need kissing by better men than himself.

 

“They look sore, Sandor.”

 

“Had worse.” Trying to side-eye the scars on his face, he fails spectacularly.

 

“Mum always used to kiss my injuries better,” she says, and she moistens her mouth with the very tip of her tongue.

 

“Uh.” The world goes blankly static at that.

 

Sansa tilts her head up, examines him with a gut-twisting thoughtfulness, before gently pressing her lips - and she’s so careful, so caring, she’s so fucking perfect that his head wants to explode with having Sansa Stark kissing his hand better - to each and every abrasion across his worn weathered flesh. Everything. Every tiny fragment of skin that doesn’t quite sit right. Every fading bruise, and lump. Every crater-like gouge where the glass ripped the meat. Everything.

 

“Fuck. Sansa.”

 

Trembling, Sandor’s free hand touches the softness of her radiant hair. Silk is nothing compared to it. All he does is lay his palm against the curve of her skull, and Sansa nuzzles into the caress, as if she’s needing the pressure, as if she wants him to fucking touch her.

 

“Sansa. Gods. Can I ki-”

 

“Ah, Sandor. Here you are.”

 

Fucking bastard’ll be a fucking eunuch the moment Sandor gets his hands on fucking Ramsay’s fucking carving fucking knife. Fuck! 

 

They spring apart, Sansa blushing and Sandor just about to start punching the shit out of Varys until a perfectly tweezed eyebrow raises just a fraction, the bald cunt rakes his eyes over Clegane in a bitchily censoring way, and he remembers that Beric needs him to keep control and not pulverise their producer because it’ll be Dondarrion who’ll suffer for Sandor’s slip in judgement.

 

“Mance, darling. This big butch thing is Sandor Clegane. Clegane, I’m sure you’ve seen Mance before, haven’t you? After all, he’s terribly famous. Hello, Sansa. Could you run along sweetheart? I’m sure that makeup will want to refresh your lippy.”

 

Mance Rayder isn’t the well-muscled outdoorsman of his thirties and forties any more. Like many men, he hit fifty and immediately started putting on weight. He’s soft in the gut, and carries the suspicion of a double chin, but he still remains tall, powerful, commanding. A thousand years ago, he’d be the sort of Free Folk commander, perhaps King Beyond the Wall, who Wildlings would cheerfully die for. His faded blue eyes radiate a goodness, a warmth, a dependability that is almost Beric in nature, but older, more experienced, more rounded. Twinklier, and filled with an irrepressible mirth rather than the ever present fires of R’hllor that Dondarrion never quite squashes.

 

“Bloody hell, Varys. ‘Course I know Sandor Clegane. Good to meet you, lad!” A big paw claps him bruisingly on the shoulder. “I’m a big fan of your work. Never found a Free Folk bread recipe that’s almost as perfect as what my Mam used to make back at Hardhome when I was wee until I made yours. Where’d you get it, eh?”

 

“I studied food history, find it fucking fascinating. There were a load of recipes, mostly by southron writers,” and he finds himself slipping into the invective of the Wildlings because Mance’s accent and bearing is that strong, “but I managed to get a few from hand-written cookbooks from the last few centuries that seemed accurate.”

 

“Tudor Week right up your alley way then? Look, I’ll give you me Mam’s recipe for that treacle loaf you do. I trust you with it, lad. I know you’ll do me proud. You ever thought about doing a series about historical recipes from all over Westeros? Bloody brilliant, that’d be. Get your lot to call my lot, and we’ll have a chat, eh?”

 

Sandor blinks, oddly touched.

 

Fucking hells. He isn’t supposed to like Mance Rayder. He isn’t allowed to think the enemy a good bloke. However, the Head of Programming for the wankers over at Channel 4 radiates fairness, and generosity, and something that he can’t quite put a finger on. Decency? Something like that? Good old-fashioned niceness? That’s quite shit. Most telly types turn up in suits, the posh cunts. Sandor expected that after the photos of Mance and Varys drinking coffee, both clad in expensive fabric. But no. Rayder's Wildling as fuck, unabashedly so, and he’s wearing cargo trousers, hiking boots, and a fleece. He’s all set to go off romping in what are allegedly and hopefully described as the Crownland Hills, even if they’re more small humps than actual mountain ranges, rather than talk about budgets, and commissioning, and all that shit. He seems...real. Approachable. If this wasn’t the enemy, Sandor’d get him down the pub with him and Beric, and they’d talk nerdy about whisky. Watch rugby. Have a curry.

 

He’s enthusiastically supportive, like Clegane always thought Dads were supposed to be like; his own protected fucking Gregor and Sandor never forgave him that, even when he was dying of cancer. Mance Rayder would be bloody great as a Dad, Beric as a Mum; they both cheerlead happily for people, and that’s reassuringly parent-like. For a moment, wildly, he wonders if they would be a nice couple, because Bolton and Varys shouldn’t be allowed near humanity in general, but Mance is far too normal for Beric’s weird fucked-up taste in men. Buggering hells.

 

“Sansa Stark, isn’t it? Bloody hell, I knew your Dad well, love. Great lad, and us Free Folk never forget the North and what you lot did for us during the Long Night. Ever so sorry about what happened, pet. He was one of the best men.”

 

Sansa’s still holding Sandor’s hand, and because if feels so normal, and natural, and good, he’d just not registered. Her fingers tighten at the mention of Ned Stark, and his stutter a tiny squeeze in return to just let her know that he’s still there, she’s alright, she’s not on her own.

 

She bites her lip, teeth denting the pillowy loveliness. “Thank you, Mr. Rayder.” The mask slips easily over her cheeks, transforming Sansa from the quietly passionate woman who kissed his hand back to the waxen doll of when they first met. In a moment she returns to cautious politeness, and not quite smiling with her eyes, and that tears holes in Clegane’s chest. “I best go and get ready. I’m glad your hand is feeling better, Sandor.”

 

Unwillingly almost, their touch dissipates and she makes her way, straight-backed, towards where the other bakers congregate. A lurking make up artist redoes her lipstick in that slightly darker than natural pink that suits her just beautifully.

 

“Sandor, dear. Do go and wash. Come, darling. So many to meet. You have to experience Beric. Gorgeous, but so stubbornly upstanding with it. A shame, because I very much would, if he wasn’t so righteous.”

 

He’s left in peace, staring at his battered hand. Smudged marks pepper his flesh, and it takes a little bit of thinking to realise he’s covered in lipstick.

 

Fuck. Kissing Sansa’s lipstick off. He wants to do that.

 

* * *

 

“Bitch,” murmurs Ramsay, his pale eyes glittering with the usual malice.

 

Beric looks up from scrabbling under a table, trying to detangle approximately two miles of cabling, clonks his head, sees Qohor in a strange acid-trip that threatens concussion but is quite usual for him, and nods dizzily. “Ramsay.”

 

A square fingered hand, calloused from holding a variety of console controllers and computer mouses - are they mouses? Mice? Meece? - rakes at the pale and slightly podgy crescent of skin between the top of Beric’s jeans and the hem of his t-shirt. If it were anyone else, the touch may tend towards a caress, but this being Ramsay means nails are particularly involved.

 

“Can you scratch my back?”

 

“...what?”

 

“My shoulder blade,” Beric explains patiently, even if he’s berating himself inwardly because being touched, after so long, by someone so screwed up hot, even a little painfully, gets him excited, “is driving me mad. I can’t drop the wire, because I’ll lose it, and we’re having issues with the sound, and I’ve been trying to rub it against the equipment, and-”

 

A sneer paints Bolton’s pale face, though there is possibly something less hating in his expression. Mocking, yes, and cock-sure, and Beric, again, berates himself for getting so deep.

 

Ramsay isn’t a nice person.

 

He explained when they were having a drink in Tyrion Lannister’s pub, at length, to why he’s interested in Beric. Not because he fancies him. Not because Ramsay’s particularly gay. The violence, and the tendency toward complete disregard for the feelings of others came through when Ramsay explained that people aren’t allowed to not be afraid of him, and that he wants Beric to learn that the reason they are going to fuck, and do ‘scenes’ as he calls them, is because the power balance is wrong. Dondarrion should be nervous of Ramsay. He should be scared, and worried, like everyone else on the entire continent. He should cower, and do as he’s told. He must submit.

 

Beric finished his pint before starting to laugh.

 

“Stop laughing.”

 

“Why,” and he leaned over, resting his elbows on the slightly sticky table. From behind the bar Davos watched with a certain alert curiosity; Tyrion, drunk and flirting with that nice Shae girl, kept waving his hands about, pointing at them, obviously filling the two in on who Ramsay was. “Why, Ramsay,” and he gave that look that Sandor described as the one fuelled by the fires of R’hllor, “don’t you try and make me?”

 

Bolton blinked, discombobulated.

 

“Why aren’t you reacting like a normal person?”

 

“Ramsay? Why would I be normal? I’m attracted to you.”

 

He is dragged back from the amusement of confusing Ramsay by Bolton hissing pressure cooker like through his nose, which is impressive in itself, and shoving a hand up Beric’s t-shirt.

 

“Enough scars under here, aren’t there?”

 

“I have lived an exciting and adventurous life of being shot at. I thought you liked scars?”

 

“I didn’t make them.” The nails dig, fractionally dangerous, but Beric, who has studied this sort of thing over several weeks, and quietly experiments on himself with great fascination and not a little arousal, goes with it. “I like ones I make better.”

 

“Then,” shooting a hopefully tempting look over his shoulder, “you’ll just have to ma-”

 

“Really, darling? Fraternising with a baker in your equipment tent?”

 

Murdering Varys is not an option, even though sometimes R’hllor tempts Beric in that way - death by accidental immolation would be a fitting way for his producer to go. Zen. Think zen. Think relaxation. Think meditation. Think of self-help tapes narrating the charming adventures of ducks swimming on the Serpentine, walks through forest glades, waterfalls. Soaring eagles, and spirit animals. All that. Think of-

 

Ramsay maliciously presses his nails harder, eyes glittering, and the situation, horrifyingly, goes straight to his groin.

 

“I have an itchy shoulder,” he explains, though Varys, smirking, obviously doesn’t believe him. “If I drop the cable, then we’re a bit buggered.”

 

“I bet you are, dearheart. Mance, this is the divine Beric Dondarrion, who even I do not deserve. He has quite a lovely bottom, doesn’t he?”

 

Tension ripples through his back. Ramsay, loving every single second of Beric’s discomfort, though he raises his lip and bares his teeth at Varys’ careless appreciation of the Dondarrion anatomy, switches tactics and caresses the length of his spine in a sadistic attempt to get him to break from his normally composed self. He keeps trying different things, and none have worked so far. They’re all slightly painful, or wholly calculated.

 

“The young man groping him is Lord Bolton’s son. Isn’t it lovely that Roose is getting married? Walda is a sweet creature, and it’ll be wonderful for him to have a legitimate heir-” Obviously, because Varys is the alpha and beyond being threatened by a mere baker, he shoots back barbed arrows designed to rend flesh and tear upstarts into little bloody pieces.

 

Ramsay makes that tiny warning sound, rips his hand away from under the t-shirt and leaves a series of what threatens to be welts.

 

Oh no.

 

Hastily thrusting the cable into the correct connector, Beric smacks his head again far too hard, turns more quickly than a man his size should, muzzily wraps his hand around the fist with which Ramsay is about to launch a deadly assault. The world turns into a prettily multicoloured LSD experience; a trip to A&E could happen at some point. Knowing the signs is easy for a man who has been shot in the face; funny colours are never good. Ramsay shouldn’t be bright blue. It really doesn’t suit him.

 

“You’re a bastard, Varys.” The tall man with the kindly face shakes his head, strands of hair escaping his ponytail. “I’ve told you about being a bastard, eh?”

 

“You love me being a bastard.”

 

“Stop stirring for ratings.” Mance slings a large arm over Varys’ soft shoulders. “I know what you’re doing, eh?”

 

Varys does a kissy face, flutters his translucent eyelashes, and sends Rayder bellowing with laughter.

 

“Oh my fucking Gods.” Ramsay, appalled, doesn’t even attempt to lunge forward.

 

Nausea rises.

 

When Beric’s sick all over the place, it’s not because of the flirting between the Head of Programming for the rival channel and their machiavellian producer. It isn’t even because of the blossoming soreness of Ramsay’s handiwork on his spine, because that feels rather nice. Definitely not the gorgeous beef stew pie he and Sandor had for breakfast that morning. 

 

“I feel peculiar,” he murmurs as his vision flickers once more. Definitely concussion. Marvellous. Great. Outstanding. Bugger. A good one, as well. Usually Beric deals with this admirably, forging on and finally sleeping it off after filming, but this time he knocked himself that bit too heavily. He’s not worried. Being shot does enough to the brain to damage it for a lifetime, and anything else never comes near to actually worsening his injuries, but the other physical effects of smacking his head are a bit of a nightmare.

 

“You feel peculiar?!” Varys’ voice hits sonar level, replete with added spittle and red flushing hectic, apoplectic under his foundation. “You threw up on my hand stitched Oxfords, you utter bitch!”

 

One thing everyone who works with Varys knows; never ever damage his affected and ridiculously expensive clothing and footwear. Rumours are that he had Kevan Lannister murdered during the Infamous Series Six for smearing boiling caramel accidentally across his jacket front.

 

Bolton makes a noise, like a valve releasing pressure, and. Well. As he’s busy desperately trying not to vomit once more, Beric can’t stop Ramsay from stalking over to Varys, wrapping a reassuringly strong and definitely lethal hand around the plump neck, and squeezing.

 

Beric just can’t move that fast now the actual banging of his head sinks in, a stone in a bowl of cold custard. Treacle. The whole world is treacle, and golden syrup, and melting caramel. Not Kevan’s caramel. Just caramel in general. Gloopy. He’s curiously grateful to see a pinpoint speck of fear in Varys’ purple eyes. He’s never seen that before, even during the last series of _Bake Off_. Even when the tent turned to ice due to heating malfunction, and Brynden Rivers, having eaten the worm from a mescaline bottle, shivved his fellow contestants with a shard of toffee brittle and tried to turn everyone into Others.

 

“Don’t. Talk. To what’s mine. Like that.” Ramsay growls toothily and punctuates each fragmented sentence with a tightening of his grip which terrifies everyone else in the room apart from Beric; even Mance, who once fought a bear - a tame one, called Lyanna - appears edgy.

 

Something flutters in Beric’s gut that thankfully isn’t the urge to throw up. It’s more primal than that, deeper and linked to some strange part of his psyche; no one’s ever really stood up for him like that before. Not even Sandor, though he understandably fights his own demons and that’s fine. Thoros did sometimes but only if it was suitably R’hllorish and he could set things alight. He was the leader of men, the soldier, the one who others needed. People look at the comfortingly broad vastness of Dondarrion and think he’s the sort who’d never need to be looked after. Such dependability allows others to claim Beric’s care for themselves, and though being useful, and looking out for his friends, random strangers, animals, people he finds in the street, the homeless, the ill, the war-torn, and the slightly weird, is something that he cherishes, sometimes, damn it all, a man has needs.

 

Not that he thought his needs would be fulfilled by someone who is almost a foot shorter and approximately five stone lighter than him, but Ramsay is a surprise wrapped up in a conundrum and dressed with temptingly screwed up and leathery-dangerous ribbon. Defending Beric is really hot.

 

The knowledge of his damnation, his being in thrall to a man who wants to shag him into submission, doesn’t get to sink in. Concussion really doesn’t help higher brain function. All he thinks is Ramsay = Good and that’s probably something Beric knows, giddy and drowning in his own head, needs to be reviewed at a later date.

 

“Do you want to remain on the programme? If so, _dear_ ,” and Varys, never one to truly back down when he thinks he can keep the upper hand with a spot of blackmail, swallows carefully under that inexorable grasp. “Do stop strangling me, there’s a good boy.”

 

“Don’t give a shit. If you wanted me to leave, you’d have got rid of me last time when Mummy Dearest shot her mouth off. You want me here because I make things interesting. Ratings, and all that, isn’t it Varys? Isn’t that what you’ve been gobbing off about? So how long have you been fucking Mance Rayder? It’s been all over the internet that you’re getting Wildling cock up your arse.”

 

Varys squeaks. It’s strangely endearing to see the God King of _Bake Off_ reduced to something mousey by a sexily possessive twenty something year old Northern sadist. He squeaks, squints over at Rayder who seems hugely confused by Ramsay’s statement.

 

“Me and Varys? Got the wrong end of the stick there, eh?”

 

“I can explain-!”

 

“So what’s happening if you’re not shagging Varys?” His own voice seems miles away, and sluggish. It’s important that there is no sex going on, but he can’t quite remember exactly why.

 

Beric, and he’s starting to really hurt now, perches carefully on the edge of the table. It’s either sit down, or fall down, and since no one apart from Mance is big enough to catch him if he drops like a sack of potatoes, best to make sure he doesn’t pass out. Everything has a slight migraine-style aura now, a white shimmer, apart from Ramsay, who sports red and black swirls, because he’s Ramsay.

 

“Yeah. Do explain.” Bolton squeezes, just a little more aggressively, turning Varys’ perfectly pale and beautifully powdered face rather more pink than usual.

 

“If you would stop strangling me-?”

 

“Ramsay.” Slumping helplessly, the world wonky about him, Beric’s face finds a black-cotton clad shoulder. Ramsay smells of coffee, and chocolate, and cigarettes, and the effect is oddly soothing. Snuggling into him and sleeping. How heavenly would that be? Even if he’s a tiny sexy spiky Hobbity hedgehog of death. “Drop?”

 

“Don’t call my bitch a bitch. Only I call my bitch that. Bitch.” He gives one more squeeze, before relinquishing Varys’ throat back to the rightful owner. Thankfully Ramsay doesn’t move, remains in the perfect spot for Beric flop upon. He’s nice. Perhaps. Maybe. Apart from being a sadist, and dangerous, and wanting to beat and bugger him into behaving, but no one’s perfect are they? Ramsay may not be Marilyn Monroe in _Some Like It Hot_ , but wasn’t Tony Curtis rather gay in _Spartacus_ with Laurence Olivier? Or was that with Kirk Douglas? Someone was gay somewhere in some film at some point, and it might or might not have been a historical costume drama.

 

“What’s going on, V?” A big hand cups the back of Dondarrion’s aching head, blessedly strong and cool. “And this poor lad needs the hospital. Going to stay awake for us, eh? You know you can’t sleep when you’ve bumped your head.”

 

“Ramsay is comfy.” He can hear Bolton rolling his eyes, but still he doesn’t move.

 

“Why don’t you tell us what the hells is happening, you effeminate purple ponce, and then I can get out from being crushed under twenty stone of fat ginger.”

 

“Seventeen. S’only seventeen.”

 

“What’s three stone when you’re that fucking heavy?”

 

It makes quite a lot of difference when Beric passes out, traps a snarling Bolton under him, and they have to go and get Sandor Clegane to help Mance, who hurt his back years ago hence why he doesn’t personally do the outdoor pursuit programming any more, roll him away safely and release the psychopath back into the wild.

 

Wild? Ramsay gets positively irate.

 

* * *

 

“He’d want the show to go on.” Varys laces his beringed fingers together. “I will direct."

 

“You know what happened the last time you directed anything.” Margaery slicks on another layer of her all-natural lip balm that’s made from beeswax and rolled on the thighs of Tyroshi virgins or whatever the hells they do to it these days. 

 

“Grey Worm does make a lovely eunuch, and at least he doesn’t have to worry about anything ruining the line of his trousers.” Yet another casualty of the Infamous Series Six.

 

“There was a whole lot to ruin them,” Margaery murmurs sadly, nostalgically. “I can’t believe he ran off with Missandei.”

 

“Cheer up. You’ve got Pod. Or Bronn. Even I’d be tempted by Bronn.” Yara lights a cigarette. She gave up five days before, for the _n_ th time, but Daenerys told her, in her intense Targaryen way, that she looks like a sea dragon when she smokes, so she’s back on the ten a day habit she’s cultivated since she was fifteen. Sometimes a pipe happens; it’s mostly when Greyjoy turns up in tweeds and brogues, and channels the ‘20s with schoolboy hair and wide legged trousers. Of course she makes the posh gays of the period look even floppier than her fringe, and it usually ends up with her quoting Virginia Woolf and getting absolutely plastered on Olenna’s gin, but that’s a Greyjoy for you.

 

“Bronn’s really good. Very athletic.”

 

Olenna gives her granddaughter a laser-beam Death Star stare that any Sith would be fucking proud of.

 

“But Pod’s just so...marriage material.”

 

The frickin’ laser beam ceases, and the old biddy turns back to choosing her next bottle of gin from yet another selection that Right and Left proffer.

 

“You know you couldn’t shag all of the men in Westeros if you married Pod, Margie?” Yara leans in, grinning. “You’ve not even kissed him yet. How can you know that you’d marry him?”

 

“Haven’t you seen how firm yet tender his grip is? How he is shy, and adorable, and has the promise of the enormous penis I’ve ever seen?” The woman looks up from under her eyelashes, almost innocently, though sparkles with absolute Tyrellian cunning. “I also have it on the greatest of authority that he’s a-ma-zing with his tongue and an absolute gentleman in bed. Apparently all he wants to do is give women orgasms. How could I not marry someone so selfless, with all those orgasms on offer? He’s cute. I want to lay my head upon his stomach and have him stroke my hair. I want him to go down on me constantly. He’s a perfect combination of easily manipulated, sweet, sexually inclined towards pleasing, and has wonderful forearms. He’s also got his own money, and he comes from a decent bloodline. He’s a perfect husband. Plus,” and she mumbles here, looking about as bashful as Margaery Tyrell can get - which isn’t that bashful whatsoever - “he’s loveable, and he’d love me just as I am.”

 

“Fucking hells.” Sandor, feeling Beric missing like he’s lost his left arm, glowers in a corner. Bloody Dondarrion. Always damaging himself in some way, like he’s got a frigging death wish or some shit. Listening to women rabbit on about trapping bloody decent, if wet, Podrick Payne because he likes eating out pisses him off even more. Poor sod’s got no chance - when Margaery Tyrell wants something she gets it.

 

“Who slept with him?”

 

“Sansa’s little sister. She’s moved on to a blacksmith now. I’ve got a feeling he’s Fat Bob’s son, but no one’s quite-”

 

“Gendry Waters?” Olenna looks up, sniffing. “Glorious body, handsome face, and clever in the way of the low-born I suppose. Definitely Bobby’s boy - looks just like Robert did at twenty five. Such a shame he drank himself into fat mediocrity considering how handsome he was as a youth.”

 

Margaery tilts her head at her Grandmother, assesses, gasps.

 

“Nana! You didn’t, did you?”

 

“Why not? Everyone else did. I have you know I was a very attractive fifty year old.”

 

Of course Olenna Tyrell is a cougar.

 

Sandor makes his excuses and goes to drown himself in bleach as the women and Varys, never their enemy when they’re bitching about men, launch into vicious gossip.

 

* * *

 

The Showstopper. Magnificent. Marzipanny. Manic. The bakers, aware of the vast time constraints in this particular event, work silently. Tudor feasts were never complete without a sweet and over-blown marvel made of heavily decorated almond and sugar, and therefore, in homage to Good Queen Alys and rather less good father, King Harry, they are required to create a spectacular to grace the finest of Renaissance tables

 

“A peacock.” She pushes hair from across her eyes, gives Sandor a tired smile. “I am making a marchpane and marzipan peacock.”

 

Sansa’s fingers smudge with teals, and navy, and sparkling gold shimmer. With her colouring Sandor finds he wants to smear the dyes across her cheekbones, her lips, her eyelids; jewel tones heighten the wonder of her skin. Many redheads find it difficult to carry off such strength of hue, but Sansa Stark is so beautiful that she enhances everything she touches. Cake. Sugar. Life.

 

Sandor.

 

No one else says a bloody thing, so he braces himself for having to do all the fucking work himself as usual. Bastards.

 

“Are you painting all of the marzipan feathers?”

 

“It’ll take a while-” Another shattered look. Bruises of exhaustion, mostly covered in concealer, try and break through under her eyes. With all she needs to do to make this centrepiece happen, there’s a reason Sansa is absolutely knackered. It’s been a hellish long day for everyone. “It will be worth it, if it comes off though. I’m hopeful. I want to make this special - Tudor Week is your week, just as much as Bread Week is. Your recipe for oat bread is the one I make at home, and it reminds me of when I was little. Our Nanny used to make it for us, and we’d eat it with lots of butter, in front of the fire, as she told us about the Starks of old.”

 

“The oat bread you made in Bread Week?”

 

“I never found a recipe as close as yours.”

 

Love letters would be nowhere near as wondrous sweet as that little sparkling ruby admittance.

 

Sansa sighs as another feather refuses to stick to her impressive though frighteningly time-consuming peacock tail. It’s easy just to reach over and hold the marzipan in place for her to carefully manipulate it with a dab of icing.

 

Fingers brush once more.

 

Twitter, rapt at the story unfolding, remains quiet for once, agog, as Sansa looks up and smiles so softly and quietly; her entire face seems to transform into something even more pretty than she was before.

 

Then. Gods. Then Sandor Clegane, the Scourge of the Tent, returns the expression with a twist of his scarred mouth and a curious intensity that sets the nation gasping.

 

Edd Tollett, the eventual and unlikely winner of the Infamous Series Six, tweets that he totally ships it, but expects nothing to come of it, obviously. He is, after all #dolorousedd.

 

* * *

 

“Oberyn?”

 

The Dornishman watches Willas with his customary blazing fascination, as if mesmerised by the slight judder of his backside as Tyrell kneads, pleads at, and rolls his marchpane.

 

“Yara. Lady of the Iron Isles. Behold my erection.” Thankfully, though some on Twitter pout over this, he indicates the thing that he’s creating with the requisite perverted abandon.

 

“Whatever you’re making looks interestingly shaped.”

 

The usual squalour of thought passes between them. Every time they talk on camera, they reach heights of smut that are rarely seen before the official watershed of 9pm.

 

“Snakes. A serpentine conundrum of snakes writhing within their nests, their long thick muscular bodies protecting the eggs that nestle at their tails. Queen Alys shares with me the blood of Nymeria in her regal veins. Her sigil bore both wyrm and serpent, for Targaryen and Dorne.”

 

“Compared to Sansa’s peacock, the colours are quite muted, aren’t they?”

 

“They are many hued, and represent the many serpents I have wrestled in my life. A black mamba from the Summer Isles, the pale Northern Adder. The reddish toned Myrish Cobra. The fascinatingly patterned Dothraki Desert Taipan. See them writhe and thrust, eggs protected by their strong beauty. Such unity becomes us, does it not? Embracing the creatures of the empire that Queen Alys held. Above them all, the Sand Snake rises, the Red Viper, befanged, slithers.”

 

Of course he makes a range of penises, for all occasions. Oberyn gives the camera the full treatment of glittering lusty Dornish eyefucking, his hands manipulating an as-yet uncoloured creamy tube of marzipan in such a filthy way that if Varys wasn’t there directing, Beric would cut the scene and ask, very nicely, if he could tone down the porn as _Bake Off_ does actually have some semblance of standards.

 

“Which one’s your favourite snake?” Yara Greyjoy; enabling sex demon of squiddishness. She can talk though - when certain keyword trends are researched by internet types, ‘tentacle porn’ tops the search term list in Pyke and the Iron Islands. It’s probably all the stuff that Theon looks up when he’s back home; according to the many people he shagged during his cameraman tenure he has a spectacular collection of hentai on his laptop and phone, and possesses a sex toy he calls his squildo. The rise of ‘tentacle sex’ is obviously his fault. Varys looked up the squildo once, stared at the screen, and murmured something, fascinated, about an ink squirting feature and vibrating limbs. Plural.

 

“One I have not yet met,” he announces, knowing touch forming a definite flange. No. Head. No. Whatever it is, it looks as if it’s rampant. “The gentle Highgarden Kingsnake.”

 

If at all possible, he leers even harder at a surprisingly oblivious Willas who desperately begs his marzipan to please set, please, and not dry out. Oh Gods.

 

* * *

 

Ramsay glares at them, still obviously riding his earlier wave of destructive possessive murderousness. The three of them, therefore, prod Olenna to deal with him. She doesn’t tend to take any of his shit.

 

“That looks...singular, dear.”

 

“It’s Bloody Maege setting fire to the heretics.”

 

Of course he’s gone with a R’hllor theme given he’s a) currently trying to break Beric Dondarrion like the gorgeous carthorse he is and appealing to his religious side would help and b) feeling particularly vicious towards certain blackmail loving producers. The astonishingly detailed scene, filled with guts and gore and death, is anointed with a tiny marzipan Varys impaled on a cocktail stick and liberally doused in brandy. The be-purpled one lurks behind Beric’s cameras, with Beric’s crew, who are as uptight as the judges with having Varys there, and merely raises an eyebrow.

 

“I like the marchpane kindling,” Margaery chirps for lack of anything else to say.

 

“Is it going to actually be set alight, dear?”

 

Cruel eyes find Sandor’s scars. “Everyone loves a good burn up, don’t they? Especially you, Sandy. Nothing like feeling the warmth on your skin, is there? Bet you love toasted marshmallows, especially when they melt-”

 

Sansa pushes a ceramic bowl from her work bench with calculated deliberation. The resulting smashing, accompanied with flying shrapnel, switches attention from Bolton to her, stopping Ramsay’s litany in a moment.

 

“I’m fine, thank you,” she tells Sandor. “I’m not hurt. I just slipped, that’s all.”

 

Clegane smiles, once more. Two smiles in one episode? Unheard of, and both directed at Sansa.

 

It is noticed. Obviously.

 

* * *

 

“Herb gardens were very important in Tudor times. Storm’s End has one, though Mr. Baratheon is having it restored to how it was when it was first planted - they looked like tiny mazes, only about a foot high! Box laurel surrounding them, with little paths, and then the herbs and other plants were carefully interspersed.”

 

Pod beams, dimple flickering and the most at home out of the remaining bakers with his task. He’s wearing a t-shirt with a duck holding an umbrella, wearing a sou’wester and wellies, splashing determinedly through a puddle, with ‘nice weather for ducks!’ printed in cuddly script just above where his nipples lie. Twitter wonders, now it’s just about over #SanSan for another episode, why Podrick Payne has not one but two waterfowl t-shirts. He’s never mentioned ducks, apart from in recipes in previous weeks. He doesn’t look like one. Perhaps his rather comforting build might remind someone of a fluffy duckling if they really pushed the analogy, but no. Why ducks?

 

“You do love your ducks, don’t you?”

 

Yara is also the Goddess of Twitter, anticipating questions months ahead of the show being broadcast.

 

“I don’t know why I end up with duck shirts. I like ducks. Ducks are cool. I used to go and feed them with my uncle when I was little - remember though not to feed ducks bread, because it’s like them eating cake constantly. Feed them proper poultry corn and duck pellets, or some commercially available seed.”

 

“You know a lot about them, for someone who seems to have ducks thrust upon them?”

 

“Amazing breasts and legs, and really juicy. I really love devouring a tasty bird.”

 

Margaery makes the sort of sound that reminds many of a mini orgasm, her hand trembling upon the polished workbench top. She’s wearing a clinging tight and stretchy top, accentuating what Podrick can’t quite bring himself to look at, and her perkily excited nipples encourage their own hashtag. Like Walda, Margie has her own fanbase. She’s gorgeous, and quirky, and everyone knows that under that sweetly enthusiastic demeanour she’s as filthy as fuck.

 

“I’m a breast person myself.” Yara, sensing blood and perversion and rising once more to her true calling in life, smirks. “Nothing better than getting something ripe and plump in your mouth, is there?”

 

“I like stripping the skin off, myself, and deep frying it.” For once Pod kills off the analogy before getting embarrassed by it. It all goes a bit #SilenceOfThePods for a moment.

 

“You don’t deep fry skin. You tan it and use it for bookbinding,” Ramsay interjects, sneering.

 

Pod does as anyone in that sort of situation does; turns pink around the ears, and steps a little bit closer to his own oven and away from the horror of Bolton’s flaying fantasies.

 

* * *

 

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” Willas finishes. Harassment lays stark upon his shoulders, and for the first time for weeks he seems unsure in what he’s doing. His hands shake, a tiny suggestion of his inner stress. Anxiety seems to be his personal demon when he feels as if he’s letting the family down, and it sits upon him like a gnome straddling a mushroom.

 

“You were always better at Literature than me, you horror.” Her attempt at making her brother smile falling flat, Margaery instead steals a piece of left-over marzipan. “I should have dressed you in my clothes and made you sit my exams.”

 

Behind them Oberyn pauses thoughtfully, eyeing the Tyrell siblings, before his mouth curls into something dark and devastatingly wicked.

 

“What are you making for us today, dear?” Magnanimously, Olenna isn’t prodding her panicking grandson. The usual Dornish tipple sits oily and glutinous in a tiny silver-wrapped glass on the side of the hob, and has been drained three times since they started their almond-flavoured endeavour. For once it doesn’t seem to be having the requisite effect of calming Willas down. He’s flushed though, and his eyes don’t quite focus, but the loss of control seems to frighten him rather than give him a false confidence.

 

“A crown. Queen Alys’ crown. At least, I’m trying to. It’s going...um. It’s going? I burned the first batch of marchpane, and Oberyn came and helped, and. Oh. it’s all a disaster, to be perfectly honest. An absolute nightmare. I’m never great with marzipan, and this is artistic, and I’m about as artistic as a house brick-”

 

“You are clever, and exacting, and you are doing better than you think.”

 

Oberyn seems to be spending more time with Willas than making his snakes this showstopper round. It, too, is noticed. It is all on camera, and Twitter hashtags needily about gay bakers, and civil ceremonies, and who’d make the cake when they get married, and why can’t they just get their clothes off and shag on camera for the delight of Westeros and beyond?

 

Arms wind about Willas’ waist, Oberyn’s stubbled jaw resting on a neatly shirted shoulder. For a moment they are still, and at peace, and Tyrell’s eyes close and Martell nuzzles gently at his ear with his seriously impressive aquiline nose. Quiet. Ridiculously attractive. Definitely needing to have sex on camera for the good of humanity.

 

“You should be working on your snakes, Oberyn.” His voice, small and soft and relieved at being touched and soothed, lilts in a tipsy slur.

 

“Pah to the snakes. You need me more, and my creations of marzipan can wait..”

 

“You’ll go home if you don’t finish them. You’ll not be here, and it’ll be awful, and-”

 

“Do you think,” Oberyn murmurs, and the movement of his moustache and lips against Willas’ neck sends the other all a-shiver, “I would abandon you, go home to Dorne? Would I truly leave you, my rose? Never. If I leave the tent, I shall remain in the Crownlands. Perhaps I shall find a handsome hotel room with a four poster bed so large, and a hot tub so tempting, and invite you to explore these with me? Perhaps I shall take you away from everything and make sweet passionate love to your mind, your body, your soul?”

 

“Could someone please stop that Dornishman from mol-”

 

“Shut up, Nana!” Margaery, enraptured by her brother and his...whatever Oberyn is. Seducer? Lustmonkey? Manwhore? claps her hand across Olenna’s disapproving mouth.

 

“I. Well. I’d like. If that’s? I. Gosh.”

 

The Dornishman caresses the pale jawline with infinitely gentle fingertips, tracing feverishly blushing cheeks gently peppered with freckles, and pulls Willas’ soft, slightly drunken mouth, to his own. The kiss starts as rather chaste, but the hunger grows alarmingly quickly, and perhaps thirty seconds later the two are in full tongues in throats snog mode. Oberyn’s hand finds Willas’ arse. Willas’ hands refuse to stop being tangled in glossy dark hair.

 

Some marginal humping may or may not be involved.

 

Sandor, jealous and aching because that should be him and Sansa, if he was as fucking cool as Oberyn Martell, though he’d probably forgo the blatant sex with clothes on part, glances over to where Varys sits, neatly cross legged and fingers steepled, to the side of Bronn.

 

Triumph drops from every pore. Ratings, darling. Think of the ratings.

 

Smug fucking cunt.

 

* * *

 

“Well. What can we say?” Yara shrugs, fingers splayed. “This is almost Bread Lion territory today, and we all know who the Star Baker is. Never has someone in the field of baking achieved so much with marzipan and food colouring. Doing it for the girls, thank the Gods, because we’ve had enough of sausage rolls for the time being - Sansa! You’re today’s Star Baker.”

 

Her eyes widen, such limpid pools as there never were in human memory, and she gets hugged, fiercely, by everyone apart from Ramsay. Sansa is popular amongst the bakers, the judges, and the crew. Always kind, always sweet and pleasant. She asks after health, and how families and loved ones are, and is so charming and adorable that Westeros is quite in love with her. She is the sweetheart, the beauty, the angel. She is the wolf who pads apologetically, who curls her tail between her legs if others get too close.

 

Sandor goes to push through them all, but they part before his determined bulk like bow waves before an oil tanker.

 

“It was brilliant,” he says, and he offers his hand to her.

 

A Sandor Clegane handshake. A shockingly rare and wonderful thing, kept only for those who do truly sterling work in their quest for baking excellence.

 

Sansa’s delicate, long-fingered grip is surprisingly firm in his, trembling just a tad.

 

“Thank you.”

 

She’s suddenly in his arms, head against his chest, probably feeling his fucking heart rate increase two-fold. Even without heels Sansa is tall, and she fits just about perfectly in his hold, to the point that if Sandor lowers his head, he can rest his cheek on her glorious hair. Who started the embrace he’s not sure, but it’s happening, and it’s wonderful, and his body seems so shocked at the close proximity that even his cock behaves itself for once. Shit. Sansa. In his arms. Warm, and slender, and sending every hair on his arms, chest, and neck quite on end with her mere presence.

 

“You did fucking amazing,” he mumbles into the glowing locks. “Best thing I’ve ever seen in all the series, Sansa. Fucking incredible.”

 

“Thank you.” She looks up, eyes oddly damp, smiles, before burying her face into his torso.

 

The hug lasts a lifetime, an eon, an eternity,  but only perhaps five seconds. Long enough to fall in love, but not enough to quell the heat, to soothe the pain, when she slips carefully from her arms, adjusts her shirt and tucks her hair back behind her ears.

 

She’s got beautiful ears.

 

Fuck. She’s got beautiful everything.

 

Twitter, who thought that the SanSan was over for another whole week, metaphorically and gleefully falls off the settee at the blatant touching and the way that Clegane’s hand rests lightly, carefully, almost bashfully, at the base of Sansa Stark’s spine. That’s nothing however compared to her expression - a strange yearning fierceness tempered with a heartfelt need in the split second they see her face before it’s hidden against the mesa of Sandor’s chest - that ends up as the crowning glory in the inevitable gif.

 

It’s posted everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.

 

* * *

 

“Unfortunately, we do also have to say goodbye to someone, even if we really don’t want to. Getting to the quarter finals of _The Great Westerosi Bake Off_ is a huge achievement, and we’re going to miss his snakes, his innuendo, his seduction of my brother-”

 

Oberyn, laughing and beautiful and not seeming to mind that he’s leaving the tent, kisses Willas once again. Tyrell ends up in his lap, all salty-damp around the eyelashes and vaguely confused of how he got there. The little bottle of vicious Dornish alcohol ended up empty, but Martell remains stone-cold sober.

 

“Of course it is I that must leave. I bow to my superiors, and leave with a prize more desirable than winning the competition. To win the regard of a Tyrell is more than diamonds, rubies, or perfecting the brandysnap.”

 

“Which Tyrell?” Willas mumbles, all perplexed. “There’s Nana, and Margie, and Loras, and Dad, and-”

 

“You, little drunken one. Not your grandmother, or your pretty sister, or your ravishing brothers, but you.” Oberyn catches a slim wrist, raises it to his lips, the object of his affections melting into a bonelessly floppy pile of red-cheeked adoration.

 

“That’s how you fooking get laid, the smooth cunt,” Bronn comments from behind his camera, voice filled with a certain awe-struck appreciation for the wiles and sexual mastery of Oberyn Martell.

 

* * *

 

Stranger looks up, tail lashing, before he looks behind Sandor for Beric’s loving scritches. His face when he doesn’t see his other Daddy is such that Clegane swears, goes and gets out one of the highest value treats, shoves it into the dog’s mouth, and sits next to him as the thing is devoured.

 

“It’s shit, isn’t it?”

 

Stroking the short sateen coat helps a little. Not having Beric to wind down with grinds, low and uncomfortable. Not that he misses the big ginger bastard. No. Alright, a bit. Just, without Dondarrion, everything seems less stable now Clegane’s world is turning to shit. All those issues with Varys and Mance Rayder. Sansa. _Bake Off_ itself. The difficulties in processing thought patterns and emotions when there isn’t anyone to help soothe the words that churn in his head. Once Sandor would just get a bottle of cheap booze and belabour the low-level screaming scorching his brain into the mercifully sloshing silence of being drunk.

 

The only other person he’d feel not so strange talking with is Sansa, and he’s sure she’d not want to deal with a depressing post-filming come-down. Hells, he’s not even got her number, even if Sandor did want to call or text or whatever. Not that he’s asked.

 

Having crunched up the Jumbone with his powerful jaws, Stranger gives the old puppy eyes and comes to curl into the space between Sandor’s hip and side, resting his massive head and looking reassuringly heartbroken for his master. He’s incredible affected by mood; such is the sensitivity of his breed. Before, when Stranger wasn’t used to Clegane’s language and tone, he’d cower under the table at the slightest curse or raised voice.

 

Whoever the previous owners are, they’re lucky Clegane and Dondarrion haven’t found them. Not that anyone else would find them once those two got their hands on the perpetrators. There’d be nothing left.

 

“Fuck. Beric should be here. I ate Sansa’s peacock without him. He didn’t get to see that little twatface’s flaming marchpane, and he’d have loved the shit out of it. You’d like Sansa. She’d be good with you. She’s fucking lovely, she really is. The way she moves. The way she is. Gods, she hugged me, and it felt as if it was right. She fitted in nicely in my arms, like you do. I can’t fucking tell Beric, because the stupid dickhead concussed himself and he’s in hospital overnight. So it’s you and me, ratbag. You and me.”

 

The house echoes with loneliness because, however much he loves his dog, the conversation remains one-sided. At least it’s something though, a half-way between nothing and another human being.

 

He goes to bed. Early. Nothing else to do, really. His mood doesn’t warrant trying to read, or watch TV, or reply to email. If he had Sansa’s number, he could obsess about finding the bollocks to contact her, which would keep him busy, but he hasn't, so he can’t.

 

Stranger ends up curled tight against Sandor’s hulking sleeping form, but neither of them truly rest. Clegane dreams about Sansa, because he’s been dreaming about her for weeks; sexual need, and romantic softness, all bound in drifting unconsciousness that traces a surreal edge to every curving fascination. Red hair. Blue eyes. Those endless thank yous she gives, without rhyme or reason.

 

He’s awoken, at around 4am by a text message, dragged unwillingly from vanilla kisses and cochineal trailing through his hands.

 

_so u hugged her huh_

 

**_Yeah_ **

 

_please for the love of the stranger just snog her face off also did u know that varys and mance arent shagging_

 

**_No. No. Shit. I will kiss her, if she wants, and no, I didn’t know about them fucking not shagging._ **

 

_i am confused_

 

**_You’re concussed. Of course you’re confused._ **

 

_why is he trying to get bake off over on channel 4 if hes not shagging mance_

 

**_Don’t ask me how the fuck Varys’ head works._ **

 

_got to go now ramsay says i got to rest_

 

**_What the fuck? Why the hells is he there?_ **

 

_hes telling the nurses theyre not allowed to give me bedbaths because i belong to him its really funny watching him try and be big and scary hes bloody brilliant he stood up for me sandy like a honey badger no one does that_

 

**_Fuck’s sake. I’m going to sleep. Call me if you need any shit. I’ll come get you when they release you._ **

 

_miss u sandy love u mate_

 

**_Fucking big gay. Love you back. Stop getting fucking concussed._ **

 

Even though Sansa isn’t there, and Beric’s holed up in Aegon Targaryen Memorial Hospital, at least Sandor feels a little less lonely. He’ll deal with what the hells Varys is up to, even more of a mystery, tomorrow. Maybe address the Ramsay Issue, which looms every deathly.

 

His phone goes again.

 

“Fucking hells, Beric-”

 

But it isn’t Dondarrion. The number isn’t one he recognises, and he opens the message expecting some spam bollocks from some company that’s got hold of his number from somewhere, or Bolton taunting him from the hospital after stealing his information from a passed-out Beric. Spam, obviously, is the lesser of the two evils.

 

_this is sansa. in case u wanted my number. bronn gave it 2 me. hope i dint wake u but i am sorry if i did. just wanted 2 say thanx 4 helpin me w/the peacock. couldnt hav done it w/out ur help and ur so nice. thank u 4 everythin. Sansa <333 _

 

She’s put a heart on the end. A bloody heart. It’s such a tiny thing, so ridiculous and small, but at that four in the morning stupor, where everything is magnified through exhaustion and filtered through night and darkness, that heart is fucking everything.

 

Even if both people he cares for wilfully use this shortened text speak, and viciously abuse punctuation.

 

Fuck’s sake.

 

At least it’s a loving fuck’s sake, for a change.

 

* * *

 


	9. Week 9: Palmiers, Savarin!, and Fondant Fancies

* * *

 

 

Beric rubs lightly at the base of his neck as he thoughtlessly munches on a palmier. The layers burst with spice, butter dances across his tongue, and by the time Sandor reemerges from letting Stranger out into the back garden, he’s polished off two more. Bits of flaky pastry layer his lips, and even his tongue can’t get the pieces to stop sticking.

 

“Glutton.”

 

“Lust.”

 

Clegane pauses. Beric merely smiles.

 

“I thought we were naming deadly sins, Sandy.”

 

“Twattery and fat bastardness are yours, you doughnut.”

 

Since he bashed his head and concussed himself spectacularly, Sandor hasn’t been getting at him as much for eating things. Indeed, every so often a cake appears. Some little tartlets with sweet red onion and melted blue cheese. An enormous loaf of that treacle bread Beric covets more than gold, sex, or. No. Actually. Not more than sex. He’s eaten far more loaves than he’s been laid over the last few years, and apparently Ramsay, in a fit of selfish common sense, says he’s not into fucking someone with concussion. Apparently Beric won’t be able to pay full attention to what Bolton’s doing, and that wouldn’t do at all. How’s Ramsay supposed to destroy a man who’s got half his brain in some dazed unfocused place rather than on being strapped down with all sorts of rather fascinating leather restraints?

 

Ramsay sent the link to the leather restraints. He emailed a full PDF itemization of what he’s got in his closet - that made Beric snicker - and even Theon would be shocked at the diversity of implements on offer.

 

Why does a man need three bullwhips, a gallon of coconut oil, and a cheese grater?

 

Beric has no idea, but he’s taxing his slightly bruised brain trying to come up with the answer. Especially when Sandor starts on about Sansa again. Since the full body contact the previous week, it’s been impossible to shut him up about how she smells, and how her skin feels like moleskin and suede, and how her hair is thousands upon thousands of drifting chestnut strands of silk. He’s going overboard on the Song of Solomon thing, but at least her breasts haven’t been compared to pomegranates, and her teeth a flock of sheep just shorn.

 

“You’re going all out on the difficulty this time, mate.”

 

“Semi finals. They need to be tested.”

 

However much Sandor waxes about Sansa, Beric isn’t afforded the same courtesy. It irks him, good natured as he is. Sometimes Dondarrion wonders if Clegane is rather self-centred, rather all about himself. Any mention of Ramsay and Sandor tends towards the angrily constipated. Sure, before, he could talk of his attraction to the short and muscular baker who wants to make the world fear him, but now, with Beric actually ‘together’ with Bolton, inasmuch as they go for drinks and he gets increasingly disturbing though highly erotic text messages, the mocking has given way to a truly pissed off best friend who keeps saying that Ramsay is. Well. The expletives don’t really cover it. Maybe it’s because Beric’s attention is now elsewhere? Sandor got this way with Thoros, who was an arsonist and cult leader and therefore a little bit dodgy, but somehow Ramsay pisses him off even more extensively. If his text alert goes, and Beric mentions the ‘R’ word - accompanied usually with a fondish expression and a warm tone - angry rattling about the kitchen happens. If Ramsay murderbakes then Sandor angerbakes. They both seem to take their various tempers out on pastries, cakes, and other tasty goods.

 

Beric berates himself quietly, and tells himself that Sandor’s been through a lot, and hasn’t dealt with everything as well as he could have. Have patience. Be calm. Be understanding. Zen thoughts. Do not judge.

 

“Being knocked out at this stage is heartbreaking.” Another palmier disappears into the sarlacc pit that is Beric’s mouth.

 

Oral fixation, and enjoying putting things in his face, means Beric is spectacular at blowjobs.

 

Not that Sandor knows that. Not that Beric feels it a subject to bring up in conversation.

 

Ramsay doesn’t know that. Ramsay really should know that.

 

Food replacing sex. No wonder he’s eating everything in the kitchen.

 

Beric needs to get laid before he goes up another size in jeans. It might help him regain his legendary balance in nature rather than having bitchy thoughts towards his best friend.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in weeks it’s just the crew, the judges, and the bakers, with no added hangers on. No Tyrion. No Mance.

 

That peace doesn’t last.

 

Oberyn slinks his way into the tent, rumple-haired and gleaming. He looks smug, as if he’s been doing something or someone of which everyone would be thoroughly jealous. Margaery waves, and he kisses her cheek, murmurs about her beauty, straightens the collar of her blouse with a touch.

 

“Good morning, Lady of the Flowers.”

 

“What’re you doing here, Oby?” There is no obvious sign of sex, but since he’s probably been with Willas, they’re still probably at the frantic snogging and grinding phase. She’s not sure if Willas has ever had a boyfriend or girlfriend before, since he’s usually taking hugely important legal cases and single-handedly trying to change the justice system of Westeros for the better, and that doesn’t encourage relationships. It’s a shame, because all Tyrells look wonderful in suits. 

 

Oberyn became Oby the moment Willas blushingly admitted he fancied the pants off the man.

 

“Willas forgot his pick-me-up.” Long tanned fingers press a bottle into Margie’s hand. “We cannot have my pretty one panicking, can we?”

 

“Performing enhancement drugs?” Yara drapes an arm about her new best friend’s waist, tucking her hand into his hip pocket.

 

“He performs admirably when he’s been drinking-”

 

“Is that in every way?” A waggle of those dark slashed eyebrows, eyes amused behind her spectacles. Margie would totally. Margie has totally. Yara is wonderful in bed. So masterful. So kinky. Her sex toy box rivals Theon’s, and that’s saying something. The siblings have exactly the same taste in strap-ons, though Margaery was at different ends of the things during her various Greyjoy Adventures.

 

“Ah. For once I remain silent.” The glittering smirk suggests something more, something filthy and debauched and wonderful, tempered with a fondness for the one that he’s obviously almost fucking senseless. If he wasn’t, Oberyn would be back in Dorne doing his whole Oberyn thing. Seducing the willing. Being handsome. If he’d shown her any interest, Margaery would definitely have slept with him - he’s far too gorgeous not to have a go at. She’s a connoisseur of attractive people, from Sansa and Yara to Bronn and Podrick, but now she has hit twenty five, and is no longer the young ingenue of her teens and early twenties, perhaps she should settle down? There’s so much money and fame to be made as a Yummy Mummy these days, and even more with a spectacular society wedding.

 

Not that she doesn’t want to marry for love. Of course Margie wants that! Just...love is never the only reason to enter into relationships. Social standing, and power. Money. Promise of adoration, and worship. Pod’s gentle hands at her waist as he kisses her into a melting pool of lust and wonder.

 

Margaery, like Willas, like Loras, is a romantic. She’d love Prince Charming, and the golden carriage, and the glass slipper. She’s also a realist who also likes whatever comes along with shacked up with a handsome royal beau. She never hides her manipulative nature - so very like Olenna - but everyone tends to be so dazzled by her perky nature, her pretty face, her quite fantastic breasts, and she lulls them into thinking she is an adorable sweetheart without a ruthless bone in her body. Just like Nana did, and she was a famous society beauty back in the day. Out of the Tyrell siblings, and sometimes she wonders what Garlan would be like if he hadn’t died. If Beric Dondarrion had-

 

It still makes the backs of her eyeballs prickle, thinking of Garlan. Gods bless Beric for doing what he could. When Olenna discovered he now worked behind the cameras rather than in front, she demanded that he be hired as the director of  _ Bake Off _ . Tyrells always reward those who do well by them, and Beric getting Garlan back to The Reach meant they had a body to bury.

 

Garlan was always the grown up. Loras and Margaery, the youngest and the only girl, ended up horribly spoiled. Willas, for all his cleverness and diplomacy, never quite grew a spine, always so sweet and easily manipulated - never good in a family dominated by the ruthless. Garlan bridged everyone, an amalgam of their best features. A talented soldier, an organiser, who didn’t stand for any bullshit, but combined Loras’ charm and Willas’ diplomacy and Margaery’s strength into someone entirely himself. 

 

“He’s that good? Margie? Your brother’s so spectacular in bed that he’s reduced Oberyn to not telling me anything.”

 

Yara breaks the bittersweetness of remembrance. Margaery smiles, aware her expression rarely allows others to see what she’s thinking, tilts her head in that pert manner of hers.

 

“He’s a Tyrell. Of course he’s good in bed. All of us are. Renly says what Loras can do with his core muscles would destroy a lesser man. Olenna says that it’s a genetic throwback to her.”

 

They collectively shudder, though Oberyn looks peculiarly fascinated.

 

If he hurts Willas, she and Loras will destroy the bastard, piece by tiny piece.

 

* * *

 

_ im not cumin back ur screwin mance u h0 _

 

**_I am not screwing Mance. I said that to make you jealous so you’d stop this idiotic tantrum and come home and reclaim your man._ **

 

_ who els u fuckin??? i no u v ur a slut whn it cums 2 dick _

 

_ bet ur sniffin rund beric cos hes got hot no hes fat huh??? _

 

**_For Gods’ sakes, H. I am not fucking anyone else. Not Mance. Not Beric. No one. I just wanted to manipulate you into coming home._ **

 

_ ur such a cunt _

 

**_Please come home._ **

 

_ no stayin w lemmy _

 

**_Why did you have to go and stay with him? Of all the people, H? You know I hate it when you and him are together. He leads you astray, darling. All that clean up we had to do on your private life, and we can’t risk your career if you go back to being silly, can we?_ **

 

_ an u sayin iz a tantrim OMG ur tha 1 hu sukked that dick!!!!! _

 

_ I cum home an yr gobblin nob an it int mine!!!!! _

 

**_It was just once. It meant nothing whatsoever. It was a business deal. Financially, it made perfect sense._ **

 

_ i don car kk??? u cheet on me an u dont get me bak!!!!! _

 

_ fuk u v _

 

_ ur just doin mance 4 the mony neway cos CONTRACT FUKKIN YEER!!!!! _

 

_ bet u u loose tha judges cos they wont leeve wbc just u an a tent an beric cos ur probly blakmalin him or sumthin _

 

_ hope u an yr tent r happy 2getha!!!!! _

 

**_This is just ridiculous. I am not sleeping with Mance. I am sleeping with no one. The person I want to sleep with is you, and you have the ring to prove that. Why can’t we talk about this like rational, sensible human beings? Why don’t we go to dinner and discuss what to do from here? You can choose - we never went to that Dothraki barbecue place that the critics raved over, and I promised you we could. We can go there._ **

 

**_Are you eating? Are you keeping well?_ **

 

_ OMG ur just wantin 2 kno if im stil fat!!!!! u an yr fetish!!!!! _

 

**_I am worried about you. We’ve been through far worse than this in the past, and you always come home._ **

 

**_I miss you. I love you. Can I call you?_ **

 

_ no _

 

_ if u lov me then u got 2 show u luv me not go round sukkin dick!!!!! _

 

**_What can I do to show you that you are my world, sweetling?_ **

 

_ u kno what 2 do _

 

_ always bisniss b4 me an i h8 that u show me u meen it this time i giv u 2 meny chaanses kk??? _

 

Varys is a man of extremely hidden depths; so hidden that most people have no idea they exist. Nothing in his life is chance. Nothing at all is ‘luck.’ Nothing is unplanned. Since he dragged himself from from the primordial ooze of a tragic upbringing in Lys, he has never allowed anyone else to dictate his doings, his life, his emotions, or his loyalty to himself and his production company.

 

Hot Pie, however, was not on any agenda he recognised. Varys never planned to fall head over heels in love with the gorgeous brute, charmed by his baking, turned on by all that luscious softness and the warm brown eyes. The accent, so common. The turn of phrase, so camp and vulgar. The sex, so hot. H was the first thing in Varys’ life that is pure indulgence apart from his extensive wardrobe and hideously expensive jewellery. His association has made him vulnerable, however - not to outsiders, but to Hot Pie’s whims and his own fondness.

 

H is very human. Most people posit that Varys is a clone, or a robot, or something created in a laboratory by those who have no idea how to insert empathy into a synthetic mind. Others think he does not feel, but he does. He does so very much. It is weakness, however, to show that he cares. People respect strength. They fear dictatorship. They know nothing of tragic backstories in Lys, the rampant need to remain on top of the pile. If Varys stops clambering over others, treading them beneath his hand-stitched brogues, then he will be nothing once more.

 

Sex is sex. Varys adores sex. There are many men who willingly have submitted themselves to being thoroughly dominated from the bottom. Of course, there is that tiny foible of his erectile dysfunction - to the point where he prefers no one to rummage about with that troublesome organ. Sex, however, is a perfectly useful manipulation tool.

 

Oh, and Varys has used it. A lot.

 

Just because he was sucking someone off doesn’t mean he doesn’t adore his Hot Pie. In exchange for a quick blowjob, he gained the cash and programming rights of a network in Braavos. He gained another leg-up the pile.

 

_ Seven Kingdoms Productions _ always seeks new and excited markets in which to flourish.

 

Varys really would do anything, and anyone, for  _ Seven Kingdoms _ .

 

He taps his fingers - he’s had his manicurist paint his nails with just a hint of subtle lilac to match his amethyst ear stud - and contemplates.

 

Hot Pie, or power? Love, or survival in the cut-throat world of television?

 

He vacillates, for the question is infernal.

 

Almost as damned as Varys himself.

 

* * *

 

Semi-final nerves tremble, reverberate. Even Sandor, with his taciturn nature and evil tendency to turn the thumb screw in regards to the various torture challenges at this stage, feels it welling, palpably, from the four bakers. They’re huddled together like sheep, even that short fucker Bolton, comparing notes about the Way of the Palmier. 

 

Sansa glows, fire and lifeblood, her hair wound about her head in some skilfully plaited crown. Simple today, and comfortable, and all in black. Like it’s a fucking funeral. Has she worn colour during any episode? He remembers greys, and denim, and possibly a green spotted dress that tied at her neck, but what Clegane memorises are freckles. The neatness of her white teeth. The precise angle of her eyebrows, her collar bones. How she moves. Laughs. Smiles up at him with curious warmth that he still has no bloody idea about. He learns Sansa’s very angles. She is Pythagoras’ theorem. She is perspective. She is the heartstrung beauty of a Turner seascape, and the richness of a Burne-Jones portrait. Nothing about the woman is El Greco coldness, or abstractism. She is neither Cubist or post-impressionism; her beauty is timely, and endless. The curve of the mother goddess hewn from alabaster. A High Valyrian statue, draped in linen and embracing some strange Eastern god. Triptychs in a dustily forgotten but gloriously indulgent sept.   

 

Sansa is art. He wants to bake, and paint, and love, and keep safe, and it drives him a little too crazy sometimes when he sees the others so easily dropping into relationships. Sandor. Surrounded by happy people, falling in love, or lust, or just simply fucking each other’s brains out. How can other people find interaction with other people so easy? He’s aware he’s been a cunt to Beric this week because he’s jealous of his mate having someone. Clegane was the same when Thoros was around - he lost Beric to another, and because he’s got no one else, not really, it felt almost like a betrayal.

 

Why the hells can’t he just go over there and kiss the woman he loves?

 

She’s allowed Willas to hold her hand, and Pod to put a careful arm about her waist, and she quietly looks them in the eyes when they speak.

 

“Mine have never turned out right,” she says, her voice a wounded little creature.

 

“You’ll be brilliant, San. You always are.” Pod smiles reassuringly, though a tic tremors next to his dimple and his usually gently merry eyes seem less bright.

 

“It’s just nerves. We’re all so nervous. Oh Gods. Semi finals. We’re just-”

 

“Breathe, you moron,” Ramsay grumbles. He’s on his phone, texting constantly, and can do so without looking at the screen. He disembowels poor Willas with a stare. “Hasn’t your slutty Dornishman got you drunk yet?”

 

“ _ Moron _ means carrot in proto-High Valyrian*.” A nervous Tyrellian limb flails, helplessly. Why he’s not medicated up to the eyeballs Sandor’s got no idea. Maybe he is. Maybe Willas is just that highly-strung that he defeats any pills thrown in his general direction. “It’s a fascinating language. I used to read it at university. I was doing it, it wasn’t for fun. Well, it was. But I was studying it, as well. I like studying. I wish I could do more. Maybe I will. I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s all really difficult, isn’t it? This, and life, and everything. I just.”

 

He swallows.

 

“I miss Oberyn.”

 

“You saw him this morning,” Pod points out. “But I know what you mean. He’s dead supportive.”

 

“He’s lovely.” Willas’ lip twitches. “I’m horribly in love with him, and it’s making me feel even more confused because I’ve never been in love with anyone before, not at all, though obviously my family - I love them, they’re super! - but romantic love is quite terrifying, isn’t it? I’m not sure if I’m being an idiot-”

 

“Take a guess,” deadpans Bolton, who seems the least nervous of all of them. He’s got a bite on his neck that’ll take a shitload of makeup to hide. 

 

Willas turns scarlet, mumbles, looks at his feet as his hands clench helplessly into quivering fists.

 

“We need to be strong together,” Sansa ventures, her sweet voice cutting through the cobwebby tension. “How’s Walda, Ramsay?”

 

Sandor tenses, ready to go and punch some psychopath. What the hells is she asking that for? Sansa doesn’t seem the type to try and create a meltdown of another baker to gain her own place in the final, but he’s seen what  _ Bake Off _ can do to people. He lived through the Infamous Series Six. 

 

“Being a bitch. She makes genoise in a stupid way, and all her kitchen aids are pink.” Sneering, Bolton finally puts his phone away. “She keeps sending me links to Pinterest, like I give a shit.”

 

“How was going out for tea?” Even when he’s faced with a man who fashions torture equipment out of gingerbread Podrick remains essentially Podrick-y.

 

“Went okay. Dad gave me a cheque to ‘apologise’ about the engagement and Roosespawn and not telling me, and I’ve blown it all on porn, a new hard drive and a sexy antique flaying knife from a dealer on the Dark Web. She’s got him under her thumb like nothing else. It’s weird seeing Roosey like that, but-” He scrubs his hand through his hair, frowns, and for once looks rather less like a bastard and more like an actual person. “She took my side on things. Like she’s my mother or something. Freaked me out. She said that the baby will want me to be,” and he indicates his stepmother speaking with obnoxiously ironic air quotes that make Ramsay roll his eyes, “the best big brother that I can be, and that he’ll need me to look after him because he’ll be so tiny and helpless. She said something about being an influence, and how he’ll look up to me as his cool brother. How I have to be a big part of the kid’s life, because she wants me to be her son, too. ”

 

“It got me thinking.” The humanity departs, melting back into something rather darker and dreadful. “Imagine what I could do with a mini-me. Imagine the shit we could fuck up. She never said I had to be a good influence on Roosespawn, did she?”

 

* * *

 

With only four bakers left out of the intrepid twelve that started, the tent seems a cavernous empty space that diminishes those frantically laminating their pastry into perfect puff palmiers. They are an elephant-eared shaped beast, and today’s signature challenge is to produce twelve perfect savoury pieces of heaven.

 

The attempts are mostly passable. Willas manages to surprise everyone by making his goat’s cheese and olive creations perfectly acceptable, though he’s obviously been at the magic Dornish juice, and Pod, smiling but that tic ever increasing, gets flavour even if the consistency is both a little dry, due to under rested pastry, and a tad soggy due to an over-exuberance of pesto - it creates an interesting balance. Ramsay spent a little too long mouthing off at Beric and managed to scorch half of his batch. No amount of cunningly spread onion chutney studded with hand-carved ham disguises the fact, either. Sansa’s turned flaccid, breaking when picked up - flopping sadly onto the table with a tiny pathetic splat - and her expression, wan and damp-eyed as Olenna pats her hand and tells her that there’s so much of the day to go, and she’s sure that her tiny disaster can be overcome, means Sandor almost breaks his hand with clenching his fist so bloody hard.

 

“Sansa?” he says quietly as they’re milling about in the tent, filming over for the moment. She stops, startled as if somewhere deep in her own head, manages a smile as limp as her palmiers.

 

“I’m sorry. They didn’t turn out like the usually do. I’m so sorry, Sa-”

 

“No. Don’t fucking apologise. Never apologise for a mistake.” 

 

That pretty head droops, like a snowbell, and he carefully puts an arm about her shoulder. Without hesitating Sansa rests her head against his shoulder, closes her eyes.

 

“Don’t you dare give up now, girl. You’ve come far too bloody far to quit on it all now. Look what you’ve done, what you can do? Alright, the palmiers were a bit shit. Tasted good though, and if you’d used less of the juice, it would have been a nice thing. What matters now is-”

 

“You’re so good to me, even when I’m an idiot.”

 

“Stop saying that!” It comes out snappish, and Sansa tenses in his hold. “Shit. No. Shit, I didn’t. Fucking hells, Sansa. What happened to you?”

 

The words spill out unbidden, out in the open at last; the question that’s tormented him for weeks. Now he’s spoken, the pressure that Sandor’s not been aware of in the base of his neck seems to burst messily, flooding his spine with a liquid burning that brings sweat pricking his shoulders and back.

 

Sansa doesn’t flee. That’s good. That’s fucking good. She seems dazed, her expression glazed and lips pressing into a tight white line, but she’s not running away from this. She doesn’t seem the sort to flee from a situation unless doing so is absolutely necessary. Brave little bird. Braver than him. She had to be, if what she’s been through is as traumatic as he suspects.

 

This isn’t a conversation that needs to take place in the middle of the tent.

 

He carefully maneuvers her out into the soft sweetness of an early summer’s day, directs her across the green manicured lawns to underneath the oak tree. Now the weather’s improving, someone has put a wrought iron bench out for anyone to sit on and admire the view towards the sprawling manor house; the parkland surrounding it is where they film everything _ Bake Off _ . Beric raves about the shots he gets, and how the backdrops are so quintessentially Crownlands. Sandor could go on about the architectural features, the fact that the grounds were the second ever formal gardens laid out by Capability Brown, and that the house itself includes the largest collection of Tintoretto King’s Landing riverscapes outside of the capital, but he’s wary of boring the shit out of anyone. Past acquaintances haven’t been appreciative of his knowledge.

 

He sits her down, ends up kneeling at her feet as she watches him blankly.

 

“What do you mean?” Again with that guarded tone, that small fragment of sound making her voice so delicate.

 

“I don’t know what happened, but something did. The way you-. Shit.”

 

Sandor breathes, catches her hands and tangles their fingers together. He’s never been good at emotion. Men like him - big ugly men who expect nothing in their lives apart from pain and suffering and baking - never are. He needs to say this though. He needs to give her the option of talking about it, because whatever it is eats Sansa up every time she flinches, or hides within herself with a carefulness that seems born of something fucked-up rather than calculated.

 

“The way you are sometimes, like you’ve done something wrong and you’re expecting to be hit. You can’t look most of the blokes in the eyes, just the ones who are wet as fuck, like Willas and Pod. You can smile, and you’re pleasant, and nice, but it’s almost as if you’re acting. Really bloody well, by the way. I only see it because. Yeah. Sansa. You’re different with me, and I’ve no idea why. I’m fucking huge, and scarred, and I’m the terrifying baker on this show. It’s what I am. I’ve got this reputation for taking no prisoners, and being a raging cunt. I’m a bastard, and yet you look at me, Sansa, and you smile so pretty. There’s this light you have, and it turns you so beautiful, and you don’t let anyone see it-”

 

“Apart from you.” The long fingers, tight in his grasp, tremble so very slightly. “I trust you. It’s so stupid, because I never met you before this, but I’ve always trusted you.”

 

“And I’ve no fucking clue why. Why me? Why not Pod, who’s decent, or Willas who’s inoffensive? Me? Seven hells, woman, I’m the worst man in the whole shitshow. I’m not nice.”

 

“It’ll sound silly.” The tears threaten, and Sandor swears, disentangles a hand, finds a thankfully clean bit of toilet paper shoved in his jeans pocket, passes it over.

 

“Won’t know that until you tell me.”

 

“Did you know I used to be engaged to Joffrey Baratheon?”

 

“Yeah. That was a shit idea.” It was. Seriously bad.

 

She smiles, makes a choked sort of amused sound somewhere in her nose, nods. 

 

“It was really a very stupid idea. He...wasn’t pleasant.” Sansa’s hand finds his once more, and she laces their fingers this time into a twistingly complex lattice of elegance overlying strength. If at all possible she turns paler, though a certain determination turns her eyes to glittering sapphire. “I’ve never told anyone this, not even my family knows all of it. I didn’t want to worry them. They never liked me being with Joffrey, and I was young and naive, and thought they were jealous, and yes. He wasn’t nice. Quite the opposite, really. I mean, the scars aren’t too awful, physically, but I find it difficult to be around people sometimes. Men, especially. It’s easier to put on a mask and be what they want you to be, rather than myself, because when I’ve been me in the past, I’ve been hurt for it. Best to smile, and nod, and let them think I’m just foolish, and sweet, and quiet, so it doesn’t hurt any more.”

 

The first thing that comes to his head is that Sandor has a brother in Harrenhal, who he loathes and hates and would cheerfully murder if he got out, but there are ways of pushing Gregor - stupid, psychotic, sadistic Gregor - into a frenzy. He’s in prison for life, and since Westeros abolished capital punishment in the late ‘50s, what’s another death on his hands? Sure, he’s a rapist, a killer, and has no morality whatsoever, but since Sandor can’t beat that fucker Baratheon to death with his own hands as he’s cooped up in prison for the next few years, someone with the blood of the Cleganes would be acceptable as a substitute.

 

Sansa bites her lip, watching him.

 

“Shit. I should have done more than broke the cunt’s perfect fucking nose. Shit!” Redness. Misting. The urge to lash out rising, he sits back on his heels, catches her eye. She’s lovely. She’s lovely, and Sandor loves her, and she’s hurting and trusting and he wants to destroy worlds for her. Wreck the cosmos. Bring her the ground bones of those who wrecked her, that fucker Baratheon’s skull painted with his own blood, as a gift of war.

 

“You did. You helped me. Sandor, you helped me so much.”

 

She deflates the rage with the mere softness of tone that acts as antacid upon the bubbling seething mass of pure ire. Sansa, so small, so bewildered. Fucking hells. What else can Sandor do? He’s up onto the bench, and she’s tight against his chest, and he’s stroking the nape of her neck, along her long slender back, over and over as she tries to compose herself. Every so often her body trembles, fighting back the urge to break down and sob it all out; how obvious that she’s done this endlessly alone, for a long time, is apparent even to Sandor who generally thinks he has the empathy of a stepped-on snail.

 

Maybe showing another person that he cared just wasn’t on the radar before Sansa happened?

 

“You helped. You really did. It’s why I trust you. You showed me that there are good men, who defend women, who look at someone being horrible and do something to stop it. None of them did, they just watched it happen, and laughed, and I’d lost my father, and I wasn’t strong enough to leave him even though I was terrified every day, and he hurt me, and I just wanted to go home. I was sure that my life was going to be with Joffrey, forever, because I was too weak-”

 

“You. Are not. Fucking weak.” Whoever ‘they’ were, probably Joffrey’s yellow-livered cunt hanger on associates - not friends, someone like him has none of them - they’ll beg to suffer in the realm of the Stranger when Sandor finally finishes with them.

 

“I was. I was until you. You hit him. You showed me he could be hurt, he wasn’t untouchable. He said that I could never leave him, I was just a stupid little whore who belonged to him, but you hit him. You made him bleed, Sandor, and then I realised if you could do it, if you could just turn around and punch him for hurting someone else, then? Then one day someone might do that for me, yes, but perhaps I could do that for myself. Before you broke his nose I thought he couldn’t ever be brought down, and then I realised he was just a horrible horrible man who I could leave. Who couldn’t stop me despite of everything he said would happen if I did. You gave me that, you help-”

 

“You helped you, alright? I just happened to punch a cunt in the face. You’re the brave one. You got up and left the evil blond fucker. You’d have done so at some point, just I was a catalyst for you doing that then.”

 

“If you hadn’t, if - if Margaery being assaulted had been ignored, I’d have stayed.” A bitterness curls her lip. “Joffrey treated women like possessions. If what happened to someone like her was covered-up, who would have believed me? I left my family to be with him. I left everything.”

 

“Your little brother says if I’m a bastard to you then he’ll have my bollocks. Sounds like one of them’s got your back.”

 

Her eyes widen, a warm pinkness finally banishing the winter of her cheeks. “Rickon said that? I know he walks Stranger for you, but I didn’t know he’d said that.”

 

“Yeah. Crazy little fucker, that one. I like him.” If Sandor ever had a child, he’d love a ballsy one like Rickon. He’s a good kid.”

 

A shadow flits across them, a soft cough disturbing. As one they look up to see Beric, tired-eyed and sporting a definite bite - shit, they’re trading them? Fucking hells, that’s just wrong - on his throat, over his jugular, gives a slightly less sparkling version of his gentle zen smile.

 

“Sorry Sandor. Sorry Sansa. The tent is ready, we’re just rounding everyone up.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Thankfully the big ginger knobhead wanders off with that, and Sandor tucks a strand or two of beautiful red hair behind Sansa’s equally beautiful ear. Even that is delicate, as if crafted from expensive bone china. Everything about her is of the highest quality.

 

“You going to be okay?” His voice plumbs roughness, catching on consonants.

 

“I will be. Thank you, Sandor. It has helped, so much. You give me confidence.”

 

“I just talked with you. S’nothing.”

 

She leans in, crosses the inches that seem like barricades, brushes her lips to his with the tenderest, sweetest of kisses.

 

* * *

 

Sansa has the neatest handwriting out of them all. Her prettily piped chocolate disc, happily proclaiming her savarin as, indeed, a savarin!, complete with exclamation mark, nestles perkily upon a froth of whipped and sweetened vanilla cream. Syrup oozes the moment they cut open the cake, and Clegane licks his fingers clean.

 

She turns scarlet, looks at her hands laced in her lap. So does half of Westeros. Go red - not look at Sansa’s hands. They are very pretty hands, but nothing can remove the drag of lips, the slight play of tongue, the intensity in Sandor’s steely-grey gaze.

 

She wins the technical with her attempt, for it is an excellent savarin indeed. Ramsay (can’t do cursive, his capital letters spiky and knife-like, but a decent attempt he’s not over whipped his filling) claims second. Willas (writes like a doctor, cake didn’t quite prove enough) comes third and, for truly the first time in _ Bake Off _ , Pod finds himself possibly leaving the tent.

 

He smiles, so stoic. So handsome. His underbaked savarain sits quiet and forlorn, rather too dry as the syrup didn’t penetrate the main body of the cake. Podrick has never been a cake person; not like the others. It’s always been about the bread for him.

 

Somewhere, on Twitter, the sound of wailing and the gnashing of teeth at the possible loss of the show hottie becomes deafening. After all, when you’ve got a choice of the four, and you’re not a lesbian, Pod’s probably the only one who won’t a) skin you and wear you like a hat or b) run off with your really well-maintained and youthful seeming Dad.

 

* * *

 

“Today’s showstopper is the fondant fancy,” Yara intones, trying to inject a little drama to the proceedings and managing admirably because she is in full Semi Final Last Chance Saloon Mode, “is a light and frothy concoction that seems terribly simple to make. Sponge, a filling, all dipped in smooth and silky fondant - beautiful to look at, a bite-sized treat on the tongue. Devilishly difficult to perfect. Bakers! You have four hours to produce thirty six identical cakes, in two different flavours, using a genoise sponge, in your inimitable style. On your marks. Get set.”

 

A glance at Margaery, a tiny nod.

 

“Bake!”

 

How they can manage to perfectly sync every time, no one quite knows how.

 

If you ask Margie, she’ll babble on sweetly about practice, and working together for years, and how she and Yara can read body language.

 

If you ask Yara, it’ll be all about climaxing at the same time as her girlfriends, which is indeed an art.

 

Six of one, half a dozen of the other, really.

 

* * *

 

“How’re you doing, Podrick?” Margaery dazzles with a smile, canting her hips, tossing her hair. This being the last time she’s possibly able to seduce the man with her sneaky Tyrell wiles, she gives it her everything. Tits proud, lips glossy accompanying a warm seductive fluttering of the eyelids. She’s changed clothes since the technical round, and Beric’s been muttering darkly about continuity ever since. 

 

“I’ve really got to pull my socks up, haven’t I?” The genoise base, as yet unbaked, glows as pink as Margaery’s lipstick. “I’m really going to try my best here, because I’d hate to go home at this stage - though I probably deserve it. My savarin was awful.”

 

A bashful smile, not at the camera, but at Margaery, sets half a nation’s hearts aflutter.

 

“I know you will be wonderful, because you always are.” Margaery chances it, reaches over, wraps her hand lightly around a Poddish bicep. Pauses, eyes widening. Squeezes again. “You’re so toned! I had no idea.”

 

“I don’t work out. I ride horses sometimes, but it’s mostly from making bread.” He wiggles his fingers, which turns out to be slightly obscene, and Margaery melts against him. “Bread is my one true love, I think. It’s why being in the same tent as Mr. Clegane is such an honour - his books taught me everything there is to know about it, and I think if there’s one man in Westeros who loves bread more than me, it’s got to be him.”

 

“Savoury’s where it’s at,” Sandor agrees, though he isn’t particularly paying attention. To Pod’s rear, and it is a very lovely rear, very firm and round and slightly jiggly in his jeans as he beats air into the sponge mix, Sansa beavers away at her fondant.

 

“What are you making for us, dear?” Since her granddaughter’s obvious interest in the young man - the well-bred, decent, well-hung young man with a good name and a lovely temperament, which makes him sound rather like a horse the more it’s thought of - has been made known, and since he’s not Bronn Blackwater, Olenna obviously ships it.

 

Margaery pulls a handkerchief that stinks of rosewater from what might or might not be an inner pocket in her very fitted blazer, or else that’s definitely been in her bra, and gently mops Podrick’s noble brow. She keeps the handkerchief, tucks it back away from whence it came as he smiles benignly at her.

 

“Half the batch are pink champagne and raspberry coulis, the other half are prosecco and rhubarb jam. Obviously I’m going for a pink theme, with the sponge as well.”

 

“I can always rely on you, dear boy, to make something delicious and alcoholic for me, can’t I?” To one side Margaery flirts. To the other Olenna mothers. Cunningly disguised as two women fawning over some baking, the Tyrell Spear Attack can be used for intimidation. In this case, Olenna just wants Margie to get laid by someone who isn’t a cameraman with the sexual morality of a rather indiscriminate jackrabbit, and Margaery shimmers, caught between wanting all of the orgasms and the love that someone dependable and true can provide a girl like her.

 

Pod. Making pink cakes adorable and not at all little girl birthday party since 2016.

 

Pod. Making Tyrell women frenzy since right about now.

 

* * *

 

“Your sponge, Ramsay. It’s...white.”

 

The tent grinds to a halt as everyone turns and goggles.

 

“Have you ever tried making black sponge? The genoise won’t hold up to the amount of colouring needed, and you look like something out of a death metal band when you eat it. Not that’s not cool, but it can stain dentures.” He smirks evilly at Olenna with that.

 

Yara nods, notes the scarlet decorations he’s whipping up from strips of red fondant, the black concoction in which he will dunk the finished fancy. A carving knife, a new one, with a considerably sexy looking black onyx handle, impales a leftover chunk of decorative scarlet icing. The other one got confiscated during Walda’s episode, and hasn’t managed to find a way back on set.

 

“New knife?” Sandor nods at it, and Ramsay’s pale face splits into a viciously pleased grin.

 

“Boyfriend got it for me. I didn’t even have to beat him up to do it, either.”

 

Beric murmurs something that isn’t picked up by the microphones, but it sounds almost as if he’s not actually been asked if he’s going out with Bolton by Bolton. A quick glance confirms a considerable amount of confusion, though the eyebrows suggest a being alright with being named as Lord High Admiral Darth Murderbaker’s catamite.

 

When Beric blushes, he clashes hideously with his hair.

 

“New boyfriend, Ramsay? You got to tell me more.” Prodding. Sensing blood, and ratings, and newspaper columns but, above all, encouraging the madness. Why is it that Yara needs to stir things, constantly? Is it because she’s Theon’s sister, and therefore the need to detonate bombs and enjoy the resulting carnage is genetic? Perhaps she’s just as sadistic as Bolton, but in a far less obvious way; She’s sneaky with it. A touch to a fuse paper with the patented burning Greyjoy Evil, and she’s settling back with popcorn and a beer to really enjoy the explosion she happily causes. She even likes Beric. They've gone to the pub occasionally, and he’s been the usual shoulder to cry on when various relationships with ridiculously attractive women have failed miserably. However, to the Chaos that is Yara’s drama llama, everyone is expendable. Even her lovely director.

 

“He’s ginger.” Chilly weird disapproving paleness meets Yara’s equally cold stare, and Ramsay leans in, fingers caressing the glimmering black knife handle, lip curling from sharp bitey little teeth. “That’s all you get. He’s mine, and you’re not going to be mean about my boyfriend on national television, are you? Because he’s mine, and the only person who gets to torment him will be me. If I find that anyone hurts what’s mine - and he is mine - then I’ll be very displeased. He’s mine.”

 

Silence, even as everyone mentally adds ‘my own, my precious’ to that rather disturbing and possessive little proclamation.

 

“W-what flavour cakes are you making?” Margaery forges onward, her professionalism shining and wonderful as ever when faced with someone she doesn’t want to shag or marry.

 

Like some sort of demented cake magician, Ramsay whips another bowl of genoise from under his workbench. This has the pleasant appearance of congealing blood.

 

“The white ones are lemon and lime, and these ones are red velvet.” A glance at the camera, and the strangest people of Twitter, saddened by Ramsay having a lover and therefore not at liberty to do horribly perverted things to them with whips and chains, perk a little in their misery. “I couldn’t let you all down, could I? Murderbaking lives, bitches.”

 

* * *

 

“Fondant fancies always make me think of tea parties.” Sansa, on her second batch of sponge as the first lot caught, turned too brown, and needed to be thrown away, is in catch up mode. Her body sings with stress, her expression exhausted, and Clegane’s fingers tremble slightly upon the work surface as she pushes herself to her impressive limit. “So, I thought how lovely it would be to have a scented sponge. Half will be lemon and lavender, the other half bergamot and jasmine. Delicate, but I hope they’ll be elegant.”

 

She pauses, wrings her hands, manages a shaky smile. “I’m very behind. I’ve got to finish the fondant, and the buttercream to crumb the outside so the fondant sticks smoothly to each cake. I’ve got to make the tiny tea pots and cups to decorate each fancy. The sponge is cooling though, but I’m horribly pushed for time.”

 

“It’s lemon cakes. You’ll be alright.” Something deepens Sandor’s voice into an earthy loam bass. “Just concentrate on what needs finishing, and produce your best. Your best is incredible.”

 

“Thank you, Sandor.” In the bustle of the tent, even as time ticks inexorably from her, Sansa lays her hand over his own in the softest, gentlest of gestures.

 

For some reason, Twitter decides this needs Shakespeare baking puns.

 

“ _ My only love sprung from my only cake. _ ”

 

“ _ All the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely bakers _ .”

 

It then dissolves into a mass food pun outrage, which right-minded people promptly ignore. Literary cake puns are not big. They’re not clever. They are, however, bloody hilarious.

 

#MuchAdoAboutMuffin and #TheCrepesofWrath vie for favourite for a while, before being obliterated by the far more populist #HarryPotterAndThePhilosophersScone.

 

Of course it then devolves further into arguing about how the word ‘scone’ is pronounced, and by the time the episode ends the hashtags  #SconeRhymesWithGone and #SconeRhymesWithMoan are tearing throats and creating World War Three via social media.

 

* * *

 

“I think I’m okay.” Enthusiasm of such is rare in the Tyrell part of the tent, but it seems as if, for once, no major panicking has occurred. Lacking Oberyn impacted a little, but fortified by love, Dornish booze, and a strange confidence seemingly born of possibly being shagged senseless by the aforementioned Martell, Willas seems bright and hopeful. “It’s all going to plan, anyway. This lot of cake is victoria sponge, with home-made jam, and this lot is chocolate with a Dornish cherry soaked in liqueur layer.”

 

A pause, Willas dunking a fondant fancy. He’s using a potato masher to lower each tiny cake into the pot of icing.

 

“I think-”

 

The cake falls off the implement, and his shoulders slump.

 

“Podrick? Can I borrow some of your leftover prosecco?”

 

The drink materialises, accompanied with a gentle pat to the shoulder, and an equally gentle, though Poddishly masculine, hug.

 

Willas sighs as he’s released from the cuddly circle of arms and torso, runs a sticky hand across his face, and takes a swig from the half-full bottle.

 

* * *

 

Olenna looks at Sandor. Sandor looks at Olenna.

 

There’s a lot of looking.

 

Finally, the silence breaks.

 

“How the fuck do we judge this?”

 

“We judge as we have always judged, Sandor. Impartially.”

 

Despite the Machinations of the Tyrell Matriarch, when it comes, in the end, to baking excellence and the august name of  _ The Great Westerosi Bake Off, _ they always make a fair decision.

 

Plus, well. Her grandson isn’t going home this time, is he? Olenna can afford to be evenhanded.

 

“We both know who’s going, dear.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

 

* * *

 

The mood, a sombre wet blanket that drips miserably overhead, pervades everyone. Out of all episodes of  _ Bake Off _ , the most tense is the semi-final. To come fourth, to miss-out by a gnat’s whisker from possible triumph, from the giddy madness of the final, grinds more heavily than the ignominy of leaving the tent first. The weather sadistically remains bright, dusty rays of sunlight pooling upon the scrubbable blue carpet.

 

They sit together now, even Ramsay. Sansa in the middle, her hand in Willas’ yet again. Pod, obviously braver than most, has a companionable arm slung around Bolton’s shoulders and isn’t even being murdered for his foolishness. To a person they look young, and hopeful, and worried, and unaware of what the great hands of fate have in store. Go through, and fall at the last hurdle. Go home, and never even have the opportunity to race.

 

Yara, since this is usually a sob-fest and Margaery deals better with hair-stroking and motherly noise making to the one going home, beams brightly. Even she has the shine taken from her, just a tad, because the woman is resilient and hard as nails.

 

“It’s a week of tough challenges, and tougher decisions - I’m glad I’m not the judges right about now! But what a week. From palmiers to savarins and right back around to fondant fancies, this has been almost as hard to handle as Sandor’s spicy buns. There can be only one winner in this fiendish semi-final. He’s great at handling puffs, got a little sticky with the technical, but showed he’s great with the Dornish in the showstopper. Congrats, Willas, you’re the Star Baker.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Sansa whispers something in Willas’ ear, hugs him, and the man blinks, turns red, slumps. Pod hammers him on the back with friendly enthusiasm. Ramsay looks across, gives a slight nod.

 

Shock is an interesting look on Willas Tyrell. He’s resolutely attains pretty guppy status.

 

“Unfortunately,” and Margaery’s voice wobbles, “we have to say goodbye to one of you today. It’s horrible having someone leave at this stage of the competition, but...Sansa. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

 

Sandor cannot even look at her as she’s engulfed by the others.

 

* * *

 

“Want a drink?”

 

Beric had plans for that evening, short and angry plans, but Sandor can’t be left. Not like this. He’s experienced the dark emotion of Clegane; the anger, the rage, the suffering, the lashing-out and pain. This, though, is disturbing.

 

“M’alright.”

 

“Something to eat? Takeaway? Can I get you anything at all, Sandor?”

 

Grey eyes stare at a space approximately three feet from the floor. “M’alright.”

 

“Sandy. Mate. Talk to me. It’s what I’m here for.”

 

“Piss off.”

 

Stranger whimpers softly, and Beric rubs at the soft ears. .

 

“It’s not you fault.”

 

“Could have saved her.”

 

“You’re making it sound like she’s died.”

 

“Probably never see her again now. I fucking let her down-”

 

“No.” He ends up sitting on the floor, uncomfortably squashed against Clegane’s knees, hands wrapping around the clenched fists. They’ve been like this for hours; Sandor hasn’t relaxed one jot since he and Olenna disappeared to make their decision. The very lines of him carve the air. Beric half expects teeth to crack, bone to fracture; if only he would lose his temper, then the equilibrium could swing back toward normal. Not this stunned, silent, frozen creature. “This is not your fault, Sandor. None of this is your fault. Sansa blew it. She tanked, and it is not your fault she left. At all. Sure it was close with her and Pod, but the nerves got her. It’s not even Sansa’s fault, mate. It’s one of those things. On another day, she might have been okay.”

 

“Alright for you. Fucking Ramsay’s still-”

 

“Stop.” Before Sandor says something they both truly regret. 

 

Wounded animals lash out. They freeze, they react, they bite and tear, and then they run. Sandor is nothing but a cycle, nothing but something Beric expects. They ride through it together. Clegane hits out at the one thing he’s sure won’t leave him - Beric, because he is by nature a punchbag and a therapist wrapped into one large ginger mass - and then they’re okay. They’re okay, it ends, and for a while everything runs smoothly, easily, with that destructive nature calmed, tucked away. Until the next time.

 

“Stop, Sandor. Please.”

 

His thumb bumps across scarred knuckles, over and over.

 

The frozen stage lasts too long. His friend has never been affected like this, but then Sandor’s never been interested in a woman to such extremes. Sure, a tiny crush here, a shag there, but Sansa, who he loves, inhabits his soul. Clegane feels too deep, too much, too wide, and rarely shows the hurt to anyone. Many say he’s a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, all tied up with a very angry ribbon. To Beric he’s just Sandor, as buggered-up and broken as everyone else. When he hates, he loathes more than anyone ever could. When he loves, then it consumes him. No half-measures with the man. No sense, possibly, but his passion is why Beric adores him, puts up with his nonsense, stays good and loyal and true. Passion, inner decency, a loyalty returned; Sandor Clegane. A Good Man.

 

Who sometimes needs a smack around the head to stop him being such a prat.

 

Beric does what Beric does, and does brilliantly. He slips into Mum Mode.

 

“I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t fucking even make some shit up to why she should stay apart from I love her. She’ll go back to bastard Winterfell, I’m stuck here. She’ll forget. Shit. She said about why she trusts me, and it’s because I punched the cunt in the face. She kissed me, and now I’ve not saved her. I’ve betrayed her-”

 

“I love you, mate, but you’re a colossal dick half the time, aren’t you?” His fingers still dance, a gentle swaying waltz of touch. “Anyone with half a brain can see that Sansa adores you, and you adore her. She touched you. She kissed you. She texted you. She’s the one that’s making the moves on you, you pillock, and yet you’re so sure that she’s going to bugger off without a by your leave because you didn’t keep her in a bloody baking competition? Give the girl some credit, if you can’t give it to yourself. Sansa is a sweetheart. She’s a good person. She’s the one person that I’d cheerfully allow to steal you away from me, okay? I’d not give you up for anyone who doesn’t deserve you, or isn’t good enough-”

 

“She’s too fucking good for me. Have you seen her? Seven, you’re gay as all hells and have shit taste in blokes, but even you’ve got to say she’s beautiful.”

 

“Of course she is. She’s beautiful, clever, good at baking, charming, and she’s got all the hidden depths that you also have, that we all have. But she’s also just a person - not some great lady from some medieval book who you have to rescue like a knight in black leather armour, but an actual honest to Gods person who has flaws. Just like you. Just like the rest of us. You know that, you’ve seen them in her as much as you see yours on your face every bloody day. You go on about your own inadequacies, yet you’re perfectly willing to overlook them in other people. You’re a numpty of the highest proportion, Sandor. I love you, and as your friend I’m not going to allow you to destroy what you do have with Sansa with your idiocy. What you’re going to do is get up off your arse, and have a shower. Do your teeth. Put on clean clothes. I’m going to make some pasta, because you need some decent carbs that aren’t baking in you. We’re going to sit down, and watch the rugby I taped last night. You can even yell insults at Storm’s End, and tell me Brynden Tully is a knobhead if you want, even though that’s sacrilege. We’re going to drink a couple of bottles of beer, get pleasantly tipsy, and then we’re going to bed. You’re going to sleep. Tomorrow, as Scarlett O’Hara says, is another day.”

 

Sandor regards him levelly.

 

“You’re so fucking gay,” he manages, the scarred corner of his mouth twitching so very slightly.

 

It’s a start.

 

“Go on. Bathtime. I’ve put your towel on the radiator so it’s nice and cozy when you come out.”

 

A sigh that could shake foundations later, and Sandor stomps off to do as he’s told.

 

Now he’s just got to hope that blowing off Ramsay because of a volcanic Clegane melt-down means he’s not lost an apparent boyfriend he never knew he had in the same day as he actually gained one.

 

Seriously. That would be just Beric’s luck.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Or, more accurately, in Welsh.


	10. Week Ten: Meringue Crowns, Victoria Sandwiches, A Right Royal Picnic, and The End

* * *

 

 

“Heya baby,” Ramsay murmurs, eyes gleaming. “Aren’t you the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life?”

 

Beric doesn’t take it personally that the love-light in Bolton’s weird eyes isn’t directed towards him. Obviously he can’t compete with the one that Ramsay winds himself around, babbles at excitedly, kisses on the nose and forehead. To his credit Stranger takes it in his usual stride; skinny half-furred tail waving, panting fish-breath all over the place.

 

“I thought you might appreciate him.”

 

“Of course. Is he yours? If he’s yours, he’s moving in with me.” A hint of amusement splits the vicious little grin. “You would have to, as well. We’d need a bitch to clean up after us.”

 

“Sandor’s.” 

 

“Well, that’s shit isn’t it baby boy? That’s so shit. Maybe if Ramsay murders your Daddy, you can have a new Daddy? Would you like that? We can kill that enormous scarred excuse for a baker and you can come and live with Ramsay. Would you like that, sweetheart? Hmm? Bet you would. I’d let you sleep on the bed-”

 

“He sleeps on my bed, when I’m over there.”

 

“I’ll let you sleep on the bed,” and Ramsay peers evilly over soft ears, “and Mummy can sleep on the floor, can’t he, and wear your collar? Mummy would love that.”

 

Beric rolls his eyes good-naturedly, sets the usual drinks on the table, plonks down on the sofa. This pub, one nearish Sandor’s townhouse, manages to be both well-stocked and off the beaten track; dark, old-fashioned, low-ceilinged to the point that anyone over six foot four has to be prepared to duck. The building is an ancient old-timbered thing, on the river, dating back centuries to when that first boatload of Westerosi puritans decided to go and tame the barbarians of Essos with their holy book and talk of the Seven before dying miserably. Outside rain patters, greyness looms, but the air remains a sticky heated fug that promises heavy showers and the likelihood of thunderstorms.

 

Surprisingly, Ramsay doesn’t drink. He says it dulls his reflexes too much, and he’d lose his corporate YouTube sponsor or something.

 

“Staying on the floor then?” He nudges a well-built thigh, that he still hasn’t seen naked, with his boot.

 

“All the better to suck you off,” Bolton purrs back, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his dangerous mouth, before he leans in and bites Beric sharply on the calf. Through thick denim it doesn’t do much, but by R’hllor it makes the upper parts of his jeans rather more constrictive.

 

“I’d rather be sucked off by a cobra.” No. Not really.

 

“So, did you finally get pissed off enough to shake off Scarface and come and see me?”

 

As Sandor’s brooding deepens, and he truly could brood internationally for the Westeros, life at the once pleasant townhouse proves rather difficult. Beric, as angelic as he usually is, is merely mortal. Even he can’t take the sighing, the punching things, the irritated swearing, the wallowing in self-pity all of the time - there’s only enough listening, tea-making and curry wrangling, and rugby-watching he can do when Clegane inhabits that dark place that they both thought they’d seen the back of when Sandor became a judge on  _ Bake Off _ , and Beric became his friend.

 

“Be nice, Ramsay. He’s hurting.” Stranger sighs, weary, curls up on the carpet under the table. He’s a good pub dog; only wakes up for crisps or when they’re going home.

 

“Maybe I’ll win  _ Bake Off _ now. Maybe I’ll bend you over my workbench and fuck the living daylights out of you before all your family and friends while I make you beg for it. Maybe I’ll demand my prize in manflesh.”

 

“You’re a Hobbit, Ramsay. Not an Orc.”

 

Bolton Gollums his way up onto the couch with a determined smirk that sets his pale face alight with almost demonic intent, settles himself against Beric, steals a swig of his lager.

 

When Ramsay says he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t mean he won’t take the booze from the mouths of the deserving. Of course he does, because he’s an annoying little shit the majority of the time, and Beric admits that even if he is infatuated with that deviousness, and promise of what may come. There are moments, fleeting but enough, where those pale eyes soften, when Bolton actually and truly smiles. In those microns of time Beric can see what Ramsay could have been, what he should have been, without the screwed-upness of his upbringing, without his variety of fascinating medications and therapies, without having Roose Bolton as a father. He’s boyish, and handsome, and even charming.

 

Then everything elastic bands back to normal, and he is forever the angry and violent little psychopath that Beric, to his almost shame, likes rather a lot.

 

Ramsay’s fun. He’s different, and has this wonderful pitch-black humour that he torments others with, and yes, sure, sometimes it isn’t actually him being funny but him being really rather twisted, but that’s refreshing. He’s unafraid to show himself, the true creature of evil darkness that he is, even in such a falsely insipid world of television where everyone desperately tries to be the best, or the sweetest, or the most beloved. There are certain similarities to Sandor; the can’t be bothered with the opinion of the rest of the world, for example, and neither kiss arse to get by. Sandor, underneath everything, has a warm heart. Ramsay might not have any heart whatsoever, and if it is there it beats only for sex, cake, pain, and dogs, but neither of them show their emotions fully. Both suppress, and wear a persona.

 

Murderbaker is a persona. Mostly. Give Ramsay a bacon sandwich, and actually pay full attention to him, and he’s far more intelligent than most would realise. No one realises he has a Masters in Biology, or cares to ask; he wrote his thesis on the human-canine bond. No one understands that all he wants is someone to accept him in all his seriously screwed-up glory.

 

Apart from Beric.

 

His arm ends up around those broad leather-clad shoulders, fingers trailing through dark curling hair. With an almost puppyish sigh, eyes slits, Ramsay relaxes, melts, nuzzles lightly at Beric’s ear before digging his teeth into the already bruised throat.

 

“Ramsay. Do you want me to have to get another drink with a raging erection?”

 

“You’re such a painslut. No wonder you got shot in the head. I bet you passed out with a hard-on the size of your rifle, didn’t you? You whore.” Ramsay’s hand idly slides southwards. He has a thing about trying to make Beric lose control in public. It’s part of the ‘I will break you’ pact that Dondarrion mocks and Bolton obsesses over.

 

“Whores sleep with people for money, mate. I don’t sleep with anyone whatsoever, and who’d pay for this ugly mug? Also, if you’re trying to make me fear you through BDSM and sex, you’ve failed, haven’t you? You’ve just got me intrigued, not terrified.”

 

“Maybe I’ll prefer to make you my bitch for all eternity, worshipping my boots. I know you like my boots.” His voice thickens, like butter and flour turning to rouxl, working down Beric’s spine and right into his solar plexus. “Kinky bitch that you are. There you are, all zen and laid-back, and underneath you’re a seething mess of perverted need who wants nothing more to be Dommed by a man who can handle you.”

 

“We all are,” Beric points out, head falling back, eyes closing. “Humanity in general is a twisted thing.”

 

“Especially me.”

 

“My Murderbaker.” The tone cannot be helped; Beric’s voice warm, appreciative. “Do you think you’ll win?”

 

“Not a hope in hells. But I’m not there to win, am I? I’m there to fuck shit up.”

 

“You could, though. You really could. You’re bloody brilliant, Ramsay.”

 

Something lights in the icy depths of Bolton’s gaze, a blazing heat that engulfs. It seems pleasingly R’hllorish.

 

“You even believe it, don’t you?”

 

“I believe in you,” Beric murmurs. “As I said just now. You. Are bloody brilliant.”

 

Ramsay makes a noise, blushes unexpectedly and furiously, and buries his face into Beric’s neck. There’s even a lull of perhaps thirty seconds before the biting starts again. Enough time for the raging tsunami that is Ramsay Bolton to quell, just a little, as someone actually tells him that he’s worth something more than just being the villain of the piece.

 

* * *

 

_ Dear Sansa. _

 

He crosses it out with a vicious slash of black ink and scuffed paper.

 

_ Sansa. _

 

That’s a better start. The ‘dear’ bit is too formal, too stuffy.

 

_ I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry about what happened last week. _

 

That sounds wet as fuck, like Podrick Payne wrote it. Another skid of pen across once pristine whiteness, and Sandor holds his head in his hands. Manages to almost take his eye out with the Biro. Drops it, swears as it leaves trails across the ragged page, rubs at his scars. He’s been trying to write something for the last hour and a half. Beric, apologetically, nipped out for fuck knows what, took Stranger so that’s either a walk or the pub, and left Sandor to steep in the black tea of his misery.

 

Sandor isn’t a writer. He’s an artist. He makes romance in bread, and sweet love in cake, and words have never been his strong point when he really has to think of them. Like he’s doing now.

 

Fuck. Sansa.

 

No text. No knock on the door. Nothing from her since he fled the baking tent a whole week previously because just looking at her-

 

Punching holes in walls seems a brilliant idea.

 

Misery, thy name definitely is Sandor. He stalks the house like Heathcliff, or Mr. Rochester; some dark-haired anti-hero with no fucking clue about anything, just that he’s in love, and he’s a cunt, and he’s broken the heart of the woman that he adores into a thousand tiny needle shards. Sleep doesn’t come easily, and he’s taken to drinking a few pints to lull him over that threshold. Being awake is worse. The moment he opens his eyes he’s seeing red hair, blue eyes, that sweet voice singing in his head.

 

Everything is Sansa. Everything is slender long legs, and that pretty smile. Everything moves in silver and black, like an old monochromatic film from the ‘30s. For some reason he sees wolves, and the bitterness seems snow-cold and winter-like about his frame, his heart, his mind. Blue eyes refract the summer skies. Velvety rose petals are her cheeks, splashed with pink and ivory. Sometimes he even thinks she is there, on the street, walking past the windows, but when he looks once more the person is just mundane and definitely not Sansa Stark.

 

He’s too much of a coward to text her, terrified of the rejection of someone that he truly, utterly, devotedly, cares for.

 

“I’m fucking fine,” Sandor snarls at everyone, even Varys. “Piss off.”

 

He’s not. He’s nowhere near alright, or okay, or average. 

 

_ Sansa. _

 

_ I’m sorry. _

 

_ I love you. _

 

Every so often Sandor becomes irrationally angry. It’s all Olenna’s fault. She wants her grandson and her granddaughter’s crush in the final. Fuck Varys, it’s because of him - Ramsay’s kept in for ratings. Not his fault. Not at all. How can it be his fault when the final three were so frigging obvious for months? And then? Then he crashes harder, and faster, and guiltier than before. His doing. Sandor Clegane looked at Olenna and agreed that Sansa needed to leave.

 

He didn’t even fucking fight for her. When up against the wall, he crumpled. A stronger man could have changed the mind of the geriatric old bitch. A stronger man would have stood up and battled. No. When it came to it, Sandor just nodded and damned himself.

 

_ Sansa. _

 

_ I love you. I fucking love every bone of you, every smile, every breath. I can’t do this. I can’t just fucking hells. Sansa. You look at me like I’m this big fucking hero, and I’m not. I couldn’t even save you, even if you wanted to be saved I couldn’t have done it. I’m just a bastard. Always have been, always will. I’m not a good person. You need someone decent, who doesn’t lash out, and break shit. I’d scare you. I do scare you. I just don’t know what I’m doing. Never been in love before, and then you’re just. Fuck! I want to look after you. I want to keep you safe from all of the shit that life brings, but help you understand it all. I want to sit you down and bake for you every bloody day for the rest of our lives. I’ve known you nine weeks. You make me a better man just by being there. You make everyone a better person, just by existing. _

 

_ Fuck’s sake. _

 

Sandor squeezes his eyelids together, exhaustion a lurking fog syphoned into his head.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve let him down,” she begins, her voice so very small and fragile.

 

“Don’t be daft,” Pod says. His broad shoulders are enough for anyone to cry on, and he’s fine with it. Sansa listens about him feeling slightly hunted by Margaery, and she’s a good friend now. He’s met her sister, who. Wow. She’s tiny, and angry, isn’t she? Arya is at university at King’s Landing, and has a really good sort of a boyfriend studying Sculpture and Architectural Blacksmithing. When she’s not at Winterfell, Sansa stays at their tiny messy flat because the distance between her home and the Crownlands is truly massive.

 

“I have. Sandor looked so angry.”

 

He chops one of his practice sausage rolls in half, makes encouraging noises at Sansa to get her to eat it. She’s lost weight, and she couldn’t be doing with that.

 

“Probably not at you, though? He’s a really decent man, is Sandor.” Pod does quietly worship the ground that his Baking Guru walks on and could be seen as biased. “He’s not the sort to get angry at someone because they had a ‘mare of a day. Maybe he got upset about the situation, or something? He is naturally quite angry.” Rather like Arya, who Pod finds both terrifying and disturbingly cute. “When he did his hand, that was seriously angry.”

 

Sansa takes the pastry, bites, chews, mumbles something about more seasoning.

 

“San?”

 

A nod, a swallow.

 

“You really like him, don’t you?”

 

Pod is a bit thick when it comes to personal relationships. A later bloomer who finally came into his stocky build - he battled not so much puppy fat as the squishiness from an entire litter of podgy canines - he’s not really had much opportunity with women. He likes them, he knows that. Especially when they are tiny and angry (Arya) or tall and capable (Brienne). Margaery confuses him because she exudes this sexuality that he’s unsure of; what does a man do when faced with breasts, and lips, and all that glossy hair? Having someone paying such attention to him seems seriously wrong as he’s only Podrick Payne, who isn’t very interesting whatsoever, and the oddness magnifies when someone like Margie Tyrell gets so up and close.

 

She’s gorgeous, and she scares the shit out of him. She’s like some dream from his teenage years, when Pod and his hand were lovers. Margaery is beautiful, clever, charming, elegant, and focussed; could someone like her actually fancy someone like him? Boring old Pod with his bread obsession, his director’s cut box sets of various sci-fi programmes? Could she have a quiet Sunday in the house, wearing pyjamas, just dossing about and doing nothing in particular like he likes?

 

But, whatever Pod doesn’t know about women, he knows one thing about Sandor - that the man really really likes Sansa, and he’s not angry at her. Not at all. Probably at himself, more than anything else.

 

“I-” Sansa wraps her arms about herself, and Pod, moved, gives her a hug. She doesn’t flinch any more. It’s really nice. She’s a good friend. Her and Willas, his good mates. They’ve all promised to keep in touch, do things together, remain that little passel of Baking Musketeers.

 

“You do?”

 

“I do.”

 

A nod, and he checks on the meringue happily whisking away in his food mixer.

 

“I’d text him.”

 

“But what if he-?” The pause hangs, gravid.

 

“He won’t,” Pod promises. 

 

He is, after all, the foremost expert on the baker that is Sandor Clegane. Number one fan, and everything. 

 

Sansa gets her phone from her pocket, goes to type something, before quietly and unspectacularly dissolving into silent tears.

 

* * *

 

“Sweet boy, you must wake now.”

 

Willas snorts, buries his head into the pillow that still smells of Oberyn’s musky-spice aftershave, mumbling something about five minutes more.

 

Adorable.

 

Doran demanded his presence back at Sunspear perhaps fifteen hours previous, to deal with some Martell crisis. His brother, never one given to obvious passion even if the blood of his kin runs with fire, sounded particularly peevish and explained, in his own clipped manner, that Oberyn must return, under pain of death, to charm a company wishing to withdraw their contract.

 

Oberyn, for he has the power, referred Doran to his other vice president - Trystan can manage such negotiations admirably, since he has not slept with the company owner’s wife - because the experience will do his nephew a favour.

 

He walks his fingers up that slim pale back, rubs his palms across the lovely shoulders. Under his touch skin twitches, muscles shift, and then Willas peeps from under tangled dark hair.

 

“It isn’t waking up time.” His voice tends towards the rough, for Willas is nothing but enthusiastic in his love making. Honey and hot sweet tea shall cure that, and kisses down his neck will soothe.

 

“You asked I wake you early, to prepare.” Ah, the temptation to return to bed! Languid and soft-featured sleepy boys with curling hair and wide hazel eyes are never conducive to going about the day normally. They tempt by dint of existing, and Oberyn, never a man able to withstand his own wants, finds not making love with Willas, not existing in a constant swooning wonder of sex and hedonism, rather difficult. There is much to teach, and much to learn; a bottom rib tickled sends his Tyrell into giggles, and Willas loves having his toes tucked under Oberyn’s thighs for it makes him feel safe. He is oddly concerned with the scars upon his own legs, silly boy. They are always kissed with tenderness because they belong to Willas; the ancient wounds cause Oberyn heartache for the suffering undertaken but a fierce pride at the boy overcoming such an obstacle.

 

“I was stupid.” The duvet ends up dragged over that perfectly straight nose, and all that can be seen are eyes, and hair.

 

“You make this most difficult, Willas.”

 

“Sorry. I’m just comfortable. And tired. Sleeping with you is exhausting!” In all of the ways. Oberyn prides himself on flexibility, a willingness to give and take, and stamina; he has an exercise regime that promotes all of this.

 

“What shall I do, when you are most wilful?”

 

A hand creeps out from under the embroidered covers, finds Oberyn’s own, tugs so very slightly.

 

He gives a martyred sigh, removes his clothing without caring to fold, and crawls back into bed.

 

* * *

 

“Holy shit, Varys.”

 

The bastard sports a black eye. A really bloody lovely one; green, and gold, and a deep rich purple that Varys obviously got colour matched at Sephora for nail polish because the hue is very much him.

 

“Do not say a word, dear.” About to launch into a petty diatribe, Varys stops in his tracks when his mobile rings; a panicked expression crosses the usually pristine and smug face. Hot Pie again.

 

Hot Pie and his apparently wicked left hook; one propelled with arms that are as muscular as Clegane’s through kneading but are cunningly concealed under an exuberant layer of flesh.

 

Sandor smiles, for the first time in a week. The movement of long-stiffened muscles makes his face ache unpleasantly, so he defaults back into sullen glaring. Around them the crew skitter and bustle. Bronn’s helping to rig sound, Beric wrestles with various pieces of equipment. Theon Greyjoy’s been dragged out of whatever debauchery he’s been enjoying, and he looks pretty much fucked out, because Dacey’s gone off sick and they needed someone at short notice. He’s already been herded away from the baking finalists by Beric, who had to explain that no, he can’t get his hands on the short sexy leather bloke because the short sexy leather bloke is already taken.

 

“Bet I give better blowjobs than his partner,” Theon snarks, all sexy-ugly weird hipsterness according to those that give a shit.

 

“No. You seriously don’t.”

 

“The only person who gives better head than me is you- Oh?” He pauses, blinking, at Beric’s raised eyebrow. “Shit. Like I can take you in a fight! That’s totally not fair. Why do you get the...woah. Hang on. Who’s the redhead?”

 

“Which one? There’s several.” Seriously. Something in the Westerosi water system encourages gingers.

 

“There’s a family of seriously hot people, and he’s wearing a black hoodie.”

 

“Uh. A Stark, I think. Sansa said his name-”

 

With that, the bile rises once more, and Sandor manages, just about, to not start beating the shit out of everything in his way. Even her name brings this visceral pain, searing his head, burning his stomach like some sort of molten lead, squashing his guts into knotted ropes of agony. It’s almost like shitting himself when he’s got food poisoning, but infinitely more; salmonella might be fucking awful, but at least with that his heart doesn’t break every time he thinks of her, and he thinks of her pretty much all the bastard time.

 

“I’ll go say hi.” Theon ruffles his hair into a mess because he thinks it makes him look sexier or something - something about bedhead? - then makes his way over towards the knot of people.

 

She’s not there. She’s corralled with the other contestants who have come along to support. He can’t stop himself staring at the other Starks, though.

 

“You alright?” A hand finds his shoulder, heavy and grounding.

 

“Tell me about her family.”

 

Beric gives him a look, as if asking why the hells he’s doing to himself, but Sandor ignores it, sharpens his expression, bumps a demanding elbow into his friend’s soft gut. 

 

Resignation replaces concern.

 

“Sandor? Right. Fine, okay. Rickon you know, and Shireen. The small girl with the dark hair is Arya. She’s at KLU, and her boyfriend, the one that looks like Bobby Baratheon, is something important in the blacksmithing revivalist movement. I’m going to ask if he can make a sword for me, one that can be set on fire. I rather fancy a R’hllor blade.” He clocks Sandor’s distaste at the mention of a burning weapon, and swiftly moves on. “Theon’s determined to get off with Robb. He’s the one with the hair like San-sorry.”

 

“You can fucking say her name.” Gritting his teeth makes his fillings scream.

 

“Sansa. He’s the one that looks like Sansa. Bran’s in the wheelchair, and apparently he’s nigh on a genius. The dog is his service dog.”

 

“Looks like a fucking wolf.”

 

“Mate. Do you want a cup of tea?” Sandor hardly hears the question, doesn’t really notice when Beric, worriedly, slips away to get him a brew.

 

He can’t pull himself back from the Stark family. The colouring that’s hers, in red, cream, and blue. The laughter that is hers, in every note and decibel. She’s an amalgam of every single one of her siblings. Robb’s hair. The way Arya cants her hips as she shifts her weight. Bran’s smile. Rickon’s bright eyes.

 

The youngster says something, slumps over towards him, Shireen in tow.

 

“Sandor.”

 

“Rickon.”

 

“She’s fucking in bits, you enormous fucking cunt.”

 

It’s like listening to himself, two decades younger, and a hell of a lot more confident. A bony finger jabs him in the sternum, wildness in Sansa-blue eyes alien and disturbing.

 

“Fucking fix it, you fuck.”

 

* * *

 

Given the loftiness of being in the final of _The Great Westerosi Bake Off_ , it’s no wonder that the tasks set are fiendish even by Olenna and Sandor’s previous standards. As it is the ninetieth birthday of Her Majesty, a Royal theme pervades.

 

Meringue crowns prove tricky, even for the talented three. Willas takes his out of the oven before fully cooled, much to the obvious horror of his grandmother, and it gently cracks all across the once pristine surface. He goes slightly manic with whipped cream and blackberries, saying that he’s creating an ermine effect to up the luxurious factor of his sweet pudding, but on first bite it carefully disintigrates and leaves him bereft.

 

Ramsay? Goes nuts with molten caramel to really glue the pieces together, making comments about medieval torture techniques and waxing. His is, surprisingly, the right colour for meringue but, of course, he gets red and black in wherever he can. A ruby made of boiled-down sweets rolled into a sphere, dark chocolate dribbled and decorative. Lots of sweetened cream. It tastes better than it looks, as crowns don’t usually appear so...disturbing.

 

Pod soldiers onward as always, industrious and smiling bashfully. He blends pistachio into his filling, decorates with chocolate and caramel shards painstakingly embedded into the meringue, produces a thing of beauty that impresses the judges with the crisp melting texture and the clever interplay of flavour. Not overly sweet, it proves rather popular.

 

The victoria sandwich, the technical, bumps up the pressure. They are given nothing to work with - no recipe, no hint - just ingredients. Willas, who has been making these since he was merely a tiny Tyrell, perks at this; he weighs his ingredients to exactly the same as his eggs, makes a lovely raspberry jam, pipes his cream neatly. Of course he nails it. Otherwise he’d be thrown out of the family by Olenna for being utterly useless.

 

Ramsay and Pod go down the sugar, flour, and butter being the same weight, with a corresponding number of eggs. They manage to produce sterling efforts, but neither has the airiness, the melting in the mouth beauty of Willas’ cake. After all, Podrick is a bread maker, and always finds sponge more of a challenge. Ramsay can’t dye things and has to play it absolutely straight. It makes him twitchy

 

Going into the final round, the last round of the  _ Great Westerosi Bake Off 2016 _ , anyone could still win.

 

* * *

 

“As it is Her Majesty’s ninetieth birthday,” Yara announces, and she’s wearing an obscene jacket with the flags of the Seven Kingdoms sewn all over it that sends many television sets absolutely mental with the colour clash, “we’re going to have a lovely picnic. We want to see delicate finger foods, and whacking great big sausages. Dainty cakes. Pies, and pastries, and all of the things we love to eat when we’re outside. So! Make a variety of sweet and savory snacks for our picnickeers - your families and those of other bakers who have left the tent - to have a good nosh on.” 

 

It is to the credit of two of the three bakers that they don’t snigger, and the other merely rolls his eyes and stabs his workbench with the usual implements.

 

“Ready?” Margaery asks, eyes ravishing Pod.

 

“Steady?” Yara kicks her co-presenter under the level the camera sees.

 

“Bake!”

 

* * *

 

“I get to make bread.” The sheer joy of bread making brings a ruddy glow to Podrick’s gently curved cheek, and Margaery squirms slightly as he works his magic into the dough before him. “See, everyone always thinks of baking as making cakes, and cakes are a wonderful thing, but there’s nothing more satisfying than getting my hands on something and giving it a good seeing to.”

 

Yara suppresses a squeak. Badly.

 

“You’re so firm yet so gentle.” Stars in her eyes, Margie leans against the bench. “I’ve never seen anyone treat bread like you do, Pod. The way you masterfully manipulate, yet tenderly caress.”

 

“Mum always said I had a knack. It’s all in the hands. They’re a bit warm for patry though! You need proper cold hands for pastry.”

 

“What’re you serving up to the hordes of hungry guests, dear?” Olenna eyes a well-seasoned sausage roll, into which Pod has cunningly fashioned a tiny piggy face. He’s going all out on presentation because Ramsay tends to be better than him in that sense, though their skills are pretty much on par. It’s the sort of final that’s just going to be so damned close that it might even come down to how pretty a pig face can look when modelled out of shortcrust pastry and encasing unmentionable bits of pork product.

 

“We’ve got some sausage rolls, tiny sandwiches which I’m making the bread for at the moment, and some hot water crust pork pies. I’ve got mousse in the fridge, and I’ll put that on a cheesecake base. Some syrup sponge puddings-” He looks around, charmingly confused, before breaking into his slow smile. “I’ve forgotten a tonne of things, probably, but I’m sure it’ll all end up being done at the end. The theme is a proper Westerosi picnic, with lots of old-fashioned favourites. Oh, Wildling eggs as well, I forgot them, and some cheese pasties-”

 

The other bakers, eavesdropping because they can, up their frantic pace at the sheer scale of Pod’s wide-ranging picnic offering. So much on those manly shoulders, but he’s powering through in his usual way, as warm-natured and self-effacing as ever. When Willas drops a tray and looks as if he’s about to burst into tears, it’s Pod to the rescue with a warm hand to the back, a quick promise of some rough puff pastry that he shares with the quivering nervous wreck that is that particular Tyrell.

 

Since there are three left, Twitter decides to play ‘snog, shag, marry.’

 

Twitter decides that Podrick, in all his glory, would be a perfect husband. Several people of various genders propose marriage and are beaten down by the Podgery shippers who ride a crest of an ever growing tsunami. They point out Margie’s yearning expression, Pod’s shy smiles, the perfection of their up and coming babies.

 

Everyone else points out that Margaery Tyrell is a bit of a slapper, and Podrick would be dead in a week. Albeit, obviously, with a massive grin on his face.

 

* * *

 

Whereas Pod channels his inner calm, making Beric look panicky and frantic, Willas? Really doesn’t. He’s printed an Excel spreadsheet with five minute increments, detailing everything that needs to be done, but since his disaster with his cheese and onion slices and having to have Pod rush in where others fear to tread, he’s nothing but a spectacularly panicking bag of nerves.

 

“Dorne. Think Dorne,” he’s muttering to himself as he flies about his workbench, a bread knife in hand. Unlike when Ramsay wields a weapon, he just looks like an overly attractive giraffe carrying a pointy stick.

 

“Dorne?” Olenna pauses, stares at her grandson who whimpers as he realises that his ferocious grandmother’s caught whatever mantra he’s been chanting for the past thirty seven minutes.

 

“Yes. Dorne. Lovely place. Oh Gods. My tartlets are going to catch.”

 

“Willas?” When Olenna arches an eyebrow, she sends lesser people screaming into the night. Willas, being rather lesser than them when it comes to the wrath of the Tyrell matriarch, just looks as if he’s about to start sobbing.

 

“Oberyn’s a-asked if I’d like to go on holiday to D-Dorne,” he stammers. “A-after all this is over-”

 

“Really?” The other eyebrow arches, a delicately and perfectly drawn on thing. Olenna, a trend setter in the ‘60s, lost her eyebrows to that manic plucking phase and never got them fully back.

 

“What’re you making then?” someone rumblingly interrupts, much to the relief of everyone watching.

 

The man gives Sandor a look of sheer worship for muscling in on a conversation he did not wish to be having, gripping at the wooden workbench as he drops the knife on the surface. “A chocolate cake, um. What else? Where’s my list? Oh Gods. Lost my list. I can’t find my-” Yara fishes a beautifully annotated piece of paper from the floor, hands it over, and earns herself a patented Willas Tyrell Bless You Thank You For Saving Me Oh Gods smile.

 

“Chocolate cake with salted caramel, cheese and onion slices, baked goat’s cheese and olive tartlets with balsamic, rye bread with smoked salmon, and individual strawberries and cream meringue nests.”

 

“Posh.”

 

Willas manages another of his watery smiles. “We used to have these when I was small, and we’d go picnicking.”

 

“As I said,” Sandor announces, “posh.” He’s been quiet this episode, and Twitter worries about him while debating whether to snog or shag Willas or Ramsay. Various parts of social media profess not wanting to go near Bolton with someone else’s bargepole, and others profess to wanting to do all three to Willas. More pressingly, they fret about how Clegane is dealing without Sansa Stark. Is he coping? Does he need them to send him mental hugs through the network and the ether? Are they shagging yet? When’s the wedding? Why does he look so defeated? Why isn’t he being all angry and Clegane-y? Does he need a hug?

 

Hugs feature a lot, despite the target being Sandor. He was a bit of a sex symbol, even before the Beric inspired shirts, and when the populace as a whole clocked what lurked under the clinging cotton, now he’s more of a bit of a sex symbol. More like a lot of one. Those old black and white photos of him tend to be splashed about quite regularly, and the reprint by the photographer ended up selling out in under five minutes when announced.

 

_#SanSan4eva_ proclaims Twitter. They miss their redhaired sweetheart, but also posit they’re not missing her half as much as her hulking bread-lord suitor.

 

Who they want to hug. And possibly shag. Because, well, why limit yourselves to merely three people when the whole of the  _ Bake Off _  team is fair game?

 

* * *

 

“So,” Yara says, and she’s taking no shit from Ramsay today according to her stance. “What’s Murderbaker got up his sleeve this time?”

 

He’s slicing tomato with his suspiciously expensive new knife - not the one from the last episode, but one that’s even sleeker and more dangerous. If a Sith could be a knife, this one would be Darth Maul. Very spiky, very pointy, the handle formed of red and black carbon fibre composite, and someone etched the blade in a very angry pattern. The same someone, and whoever made it is possibly stark raving mad, serrated the upper edge. Why? It serves no purpose, but it looks really cool. It’s terribly, horribly Ramsay.

 

“Medley of chocolate cakes, squid ink ciabatta topped with gold flake, tomato and black olive filo parcels with balsamic,” and he sneers at Willas for having similar ideas, “black pudding sausage rolls with chilli, and a baked volcano.”

 

“What the hells is a baked volcano?”

 

Ramsay grins, like he always does when he confuses people. “It’s like a baked alaska, but with coloured meringue, and when you cut it open you get homemade strawberry ice cream inside.”

 

“Please tell me that you’re not setting fire to your meringue, as is usual with a baked alaska?” Margaery asks, as she glances so briefly at Sandor the camera hardly captures her concern. Clegane’s expression hardens, stone and flint and brick, and he crosses his arms across his massive chest. Today’s shirt is Targaryen red. It doesn’t suit him overly well, but since everyone else is being royal, it’s obviously as close as he’ll get. He looks what people may imagine a dragon to look like, if it decided to give up being an enormous flappy bastard, and just wanted to be an enormous bastard instead.

 

“I’m not,” he replies easily, pale eyes glittering and amused, “but I know a R’hllor worshipper who wants to, don’t I?”

 

A slightly startled looking Beric, and no one sees who shoves him that hard or determinedly, though it’s usually Varys who does such things, stumbles into shot. “I told you that health and safety won’t allow us to burn your meringue, Ramsay. We’re not insured for that.” He glances off camera, shakes his head, turns his attention back to the short leather-clad maniac before him. The Bolton T-Shirt Of Choice is Deadpool. Again, like many of his belongings, this is very him. He’s very good at accessorising.

 

“Don’t you want to have sex with me later?”

 

The whole of Westeros screeches to a noisy halt.

 

“Ramsay.”

 

“Cake or sex? Burn the cake, get laid. Don’t burn the cake, and no sex for you.” It’s all very _Matrix_ -style red pill blue pill. Rabbit holes, and that, but with more penis and less Keanu Reeves.

 

The muscle next to Beric’s eye twitches, but he smiles, impressively affable, and ruffles Ramsay’s hair.

 

“Not going to work, Ramsay. Not even on national television.”

 

Murderbaker glares and stabs his workbench once more.

 

Twitter explodes, flings itself screaming into the abyss.

 

* * *

 

For once the weather holds; glorious sunshine beating down on a warm June day. They’ve laid out blankets in the emerald parkland, upon which friends and families enjoy the beautifully plated and presented baked goods.

 

Walda wipes lipstick off Ramsay’s cheek with her thumb, natters on excitedly about his efforts and the Boltonspawn, before pulling him into a tight and pregnant hug. For a moment his hands hover, unsure what to do with physical affection from someone he isn’t trying to destroy, before he gingerly lays his palms on her shoulders. Next to them a man in black, with eyes as chilly but rather more indescribably evil than even Bolton Minor’s own, stares wordlessly at Beric.

 

“He’s done so well, hasn’t he, Roosey?”

 

“Hmm?” A faint turn of a saturnine head, though the death glare - it’s obvious where Ramsay gets it from - shoots lasers at certain tall and plump redhaired Directors.

 

“Ramsay? Did well? Didn’t he?” The sweetness of her words takes on, for those who know Walda, the slightest of edges.

 

“Hmm? Oh. Yes. Tolerable. I still think your chocolate ca-”

 

“Leechy?” Walda hums, the edge honing delicately on her tongue.

 

“Yes dear?”

 

Walda tilts her head. Her grip on Ramsay tightens, just slightly, but enough to elicit a tiny squeak from the young man.

 

Roose Bolton, terror of the North, scion of the Dreadfort, all around machiavellian business opportunist and possible organised crime boss, understands the sharpness and the fluttering so very well that a faint hint of colour comes to his cheeks and he mumbles something vague about being proud just to make Walda smile lovingly at him once more.

 

His son shudders.

 

* * *

 

“Olenna knows about Dorne,” Willas whispers. Tension wracks his shoulders, tugs at his neck. “I’m so sorry. I was telling myself that when I move to Dorne everything will be wonderful, I just need to get through today, and then she heard me, and started questioning me, and raised her eyebrows. I can’t deal with her raising her eyebrows.”

 

He’s pillowed upon Oberyn’s chest, because how can he not be? Where else would anyone want to be, apart from snuggling the most beautiful man in the world? Because, oh, Oberyn is wonderful, isn’t he? He’s the most spectacular, incredible person that Willas has ever met, let alone made love to, and even if he finds himself pinching himself because he doesn’t quite believe it still, and causes random bruises that Oberyn kisses better, and-

 

Where was he?

 

Fingers trail sparkling pleasure at every touch.

 

Nope. What was he thinking?

 

Oh. Dorne. Of course.

 

At least the horrid solidity of his neck softens just a tad.

 

“You will be coming to Dorne, even if you win?” Something truly awful passes across Oberyn’s handsome face, as if he’s worrying that Willas might go back on what they’ve been discussing for several weeks now. How could he even think that? Obviously Willas is batting well above his average for even being in the same bed as Oberyn, and really, if anyone should be fretting it should be him because there are far more worthy people out there, and-

 

But then Oberyn’s only loved two people in his life, and he fell terribly hard and even more shockingly quickly. One of them is the mother of his many daughters. The other is, well. Willas can’t quite believe it, which leads to more pinching, and if he’s found doing that he ends up being tied to the bed and ravished.

 

He asked, a week or so ago, whether this was just a Sex Thing. Obviously being Willas Tyrell he didn’t come straight out and say that; he danced around it a little, stammered, blushed a little, and then managed to say what was on his mind.

 

“Can it not be a ‘sex thing’ and a love match, sweet boy?” Oberyn murmured, his eyes as glowingly dark as chocolate mirror glaze, before getting to his knees with a faint click of joints and demonstrating both points very admirably with his mouth.

 

“Not even Olenna would stop me from coming to Dorne.”

 

The braveness makes him smile, and Oberyn’s clouded expression melt to heated deserts.

 

“When you defy your grandmother, it makes me most aroused.”

 

“We can’t, Oberyn. Not here-?”

 

A tongue traces the delicate cartilage of his ear, and Willas Tyrell wonders where he can get a room when all they have is a selection of tents.

 

* * *

 

The Starks have formally adopted Podrick. It is known.

 

“This is fucking amazing,” Theon spits out from around a mouthful of pastry. He’s got an arm around Robb’s shoulders, and they’re sharing a bottle of low alcohol beer without bothering to wipe spittle from the rim; they’re going to go out later to whatever nightlife they can find in the general vicinity and get seriously drunk. They keep talking about girls, and possibly scoring some weed, even though Robb Stark is a company director in the family business and Theon is basically the heir to some rocks at the end of the world.

 

Pod’s never been like that. He’s very vanilla, according to three fifths of the Starks. Bran and Sansa are far too polite to tease. Apparently, they’re really like their Mum.

 

“It’s just-”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Arya snaps. “It really is fucking amazing.”

 

She’s so small that someone could break her. Tiny, but she’s lethal; Pod’s seen her send off unwanted admirers as Gendry just grinned. Even today she’s in that half-punk stage of a rebellious student, and he can see her knees through her ripped out skinny jeans. No dressing up for anyone, no pretending to be someone else. Gendry’s the same. He’s in jeans, and a t-shirt, and looks like any other mid twenties bloke apart from the massive biceps and the spattering of slag burns over his cheeks.

 

Something exploded at the forge, apparently.

 

“You coming out with us later, Poddy? Poddington Pea? Pod Racer?”

 

“I’m okay, thanks.”

 

“He’s going to win,” Bran says suddenly, looking up from his mobile phone. 

 

“Says who?”

 

“Jojen.”

 

“If,” Arya drawls, “Jojen said for you to fall off a fucking tower, you’d so do it.”

 

Bran turns red.

 

“Who’s Jojen?” Pod’s ended up sandwiched between Sansa and Rickon.

 

“Bran’s boyf-”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend.” 

 

“You so want to suck his dick.”

 

Bran stares at Rickon with those ancient all-seeing eyes of his. He’s quite creepy, really. It doesn’t seem to affect his little brother, who snorts, bares his teeth, gets quietly smacked around the back of the head by Shireen who is a really nice and sensible sort of girl studying molecular physics and other things Pod could never dream of understanding at school. She’s doing advanced courses, even if she’s not even old enough to vote.

 

“What is between me and Jojen is something that none of you could ever understand,” Bran adds, intensity softening his voice into this dreamy obsessive sort of note.

 

Everyone, apart from Pod and San-

 

Sansa isn’t there.

 

* * *

 

“This has been the closest Bake Off final for years. Three excellent bakers. Three royal pain in the backside challenges. Three Heads of the Dragon, if you will.”

 

Yara pauses, grinning broadly.

 

“However, there can be only one King of the Tent. My lords, ladies, and gentlepeople, we present the winner of Bake Off 2016 - “

 

A dramatic pause ensues. Willas and Pod hold hands, telling each other that the other has won. Ramsay crosses his arms and glares idly into space, though his boot seems to be touching Pod’s trainer in solidarity.

 

“Podrick.”

 

The last expression before he’s engulfed by fellow bakers - even Bolton - several screaming Starks, a slightly drunk Theon, and just people wanting in on the group hug, is of absolute and very polite surprise.

 

* * *

 

He watches, stomach clenching.

 

That should be Sansa, not Podrick. Fucking hells. She’ll be in that hugpile, arms around Pod. Maybe they’ll get fucking married, have babies, all that shit. Rickon said he’d broken her heart, didn’t he? Alright, Pod’s a good kid, and he’d be better for her than a baker with issues.

 

“Smile,” Olenna hisses at him from the corner of her pruned mouth, clapping away and looking magnanimous even if her little grandson got bitchslapped. “Don’t you dare do whatever you’re going to do before you’re off camera, dear.”

 

He hates her, and is thankful all at once, for her grounding him. He manages a show of teeth, a few frames of him nodding, and then Sandor pushes through the throngs of well-wishers, needing space, and air, and to be able to breathe.

 

He finds himself in the tent once more, perhaps for the last time, and it hits him in the solar plexus like an arrow through a throat, dizzy and half-stoned on pent-up emotions ravaging.

 

It’s done. Everything, possibly. Done.

 

Slowly he moves, treacle and molasses, as if caught in some time-resisting bubble of grief that threatens to pop and spill Sandor, messily, into a reality he refuses to face. Even though this isn’t her bench, and hasn’t been for a whole week, he lowers himself heavily to the carpeted floor, presses his sweating back against the cool slick glass oven front, and fails, miserably, to stop the tearing at his heart, his eyes, his chest.

 

Sansa. Gone.

 

_ Bake Off _ . Possibly gone

 

Beric. Stolen by a short-arsed sadist.

 

What’s left? A career that stretches hollow and echoing. A dog he adores but doesn’t replace a need for human company that Sandor didn’t even know he craved. Money? Can’t buy fucking bastard happiness, can it, when the source of all he loves trickles through his fingers like ashes of a past burned to cinder and nothingness. She’s gone. It’s gone. He’s gone. The very things he loves, in differing but important ways, do not exist as they once did.

 

He sees a hint of red at the corner of his eye.

 

Beric.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Footsteps indicate that fucking off is not in Beric’s usually extensive vocabulary.

 

He steels himself for that warm hand on his shoulder, made mocking by circumstance and self-loathing, but that does not come. Instead, fingers touch his hair, the back of his neck, cool and supple fingertipped and rather more delicate than anything belonging to a massive ginger cunt should be.

 

“Sandor?”

 

Not Beric.

 

Oh shit. Fuck’s sake.

 

Sandor is a proud man through circumstance rather than nature. He runs towards tearing himself to shreds with words, and belittling his achievements; a man with a background such as his learns such lessons at far too young an age to ever shake them off completely. However, even he crawls towards a certain standard; never let the bastards see you when you’re at your lowest. Snarl. Bite. Fight. Fuck their shit up rather than allowing them to understand that under the toughened hide and surliness there is a heart, and a mind, and a person.

 

Don’t let the woman that he loves see him at his lowest.

 

Sansa settles next to him, their thighs brushing as she crosses her legs under her. She smells of lemon, and sunshine, and goodness, and that heady sweet/spice that encapsulates her in one inhalation. He breathes in helplessly, desperate to cling to memories, falls harder as her slim hand touches his.

 

“Don’t. Fucking don’t.”

 

“What’s wrong?"

 

“I.” The words dry on his tongue. “Go back to the party. Have fun.” Echoes of festivities softly blanket the silence.

 

“Not without you.”

 

“What the fuck do you want from me?” He curses more as Sansa flinches, feels her fingers tighten involuntarily about his wrist, but she watches him carefully with those beautiful eyes of hers.

 

“To talk, if we can. I-I thought you were angry at me,” she begins.

 

“What the-? Why would I be angry at you? Shit. I was the wanker that didn’t stand up for you! I was the one that didn’t fight. I should have fought for you, and I didn’t, and I’m so fucking sorry Sansa. I’m just so fucking shit, and I should have done that, and I love you, and I’m a fucking twat who didn’t do something for the woman that I don’t deserve-”

 

“Don’t,” and the begging note brings him back from yet another blackly self-destructive rant that, for once, manages to be external. “Don’t, Sandor. It’s not your fault. I had an off day, and I deserved to go. It’s nothing to do with you, because I wasn’t as good as the others. Do you see that?”

 

“I should have-”

 

“No. You’re honest, and good, and you did what was right. It’s hard, doing the right thing when instinct demands something else, when the other would be the safest of things to do.”

 

Sansa tucks into herself, and Sandor, understanding, clumsily laces their fingers together. Her skin, satiny and soft, skims across his own roughened hide; in a moment of madness he leans down, hair curtaining his face and his burning embarrassment, kisses her knuckles.

 

“Sandor?”

 

“Yeah?” His voice, rolled oats and gravel, clatters on his tongue.

 

“I think I love you, too.”

 

She’s brave enough - fucking brave, Sansa Stark - to meet his gaze as she says those words, and, for once in his life, Sandor responds. Their movements mirror, their mouths touch with a nervousness that whites his mind the moment lip meets skin, and then he’s helpless. Helpless, and falling, with his hands in her long flame hair, the only fire he can deal with. She tastes like baking, and home, and absolution, and the future forever and ever, extending between lifetimes and eons.

 

In all things such chasteness should not make him hard, and sweating, and breathless, but as they finally part with, Sandor knows, identical expressions of shock, Sansa feels all that he does. The connection, the electricity, the strange safeness of being; everything in his brain, his body, flickers in her blue eyes before she smiles, strange and stunned and ravishingly beautiful.

 

He is home. He is safe. He is loved.

 

* * *

 

Six months later. The last episode finally airs.

 

“It’s strange watching it on television.” Sansa bites into a slice of treacle bread, slavered in thick yellow hand-churned butter and heather honey. Sandor makes her a loaf every three days, like clockwork. “I still think I sound really odd. Everyone else sounds perfectly normal.”

 

“Sound is different outside your head,” he points out. “Something to do with bone and echoes or some shit like that.”

 

She hums, licks the sticky sweetness from her lips, smiles up at him in a manner that makes Sandor’s heart judder. “Twitter seems to be playing snog, marry, and shag with those three. People keep asking me which I’d do to them. Tyrion says he’ll marry Willas for the cash. Brienne maintains she’s above these sorts of things, and Jaime keeps telling people in really bad text speak that she’s his wench.”

 

Sandor’s never had a Twitter account, even though he’d be perfect at it; taciturn natures suit one hundred and forty words or less. Apparently there is some sort of social media outlet for him, maintained by his agency, but it’s nothing personal and just about his physical appearances on television, or what he’s up to. Sometimes recipes end up being posted, but he’s not the type to splash himself all across everything.

 

He’s never been a typical television star. There’s always been a touch of mystery about Sandor Clegane.

 

“What’re the rest saying?”

 

“Barristan and Ashara are being really sweet and cheering everyone on.” Her eyes shine, bright and amused. “They’re sharing an account, and sign it off with their initials. They’re so old fashioned. Oberyn and Willas aren’t saying much at all.”

 

“Probably fucking.” Since Tyrell showed a backbone and ran away to Dorne after failing his grandmother on national television, there have been many Instagram photographs of the couple being, well. Couply. In more ways than one. Willas looks happy. Good on him, the poor little pathetic bastard. “Walda?”

 

“Her Twitter is really pink…” Sansa shows him the screen. It sears his eyeballs, and he shoves a handful of crisps in his mouth to battle the pain. “She’s Tweeting lots of hearts at Ramsay’s account, and his fans seem really excited about it. I think she’s adopted them all.”

 

“Beric says she’s got a YouTube account to send hugs to Ramsay’s gamer fans.”

 

“She’s so lovely-”

 

“She’s completely barking mad.” 

 

Sansa slides sideways slightly, resting her head against Sandor’s shoulder.

 

This is how they are. This is Their Life. A warm cozy darkened living space with hundreds of Sansa-crocheted and knitted blankets, all snug and soothing. Her presence began the moment  _ Bake Off  _ ended, the instant they broke down the tent, the second they drifted away once more, possibly forever, from that leafy-green parkland manor somewhere in the luxuriant Crownlands. Sansa didn’t go back to Arya’s flat; she ended up drinking hot chocolate and eating brioche at Sandor’s scrubbed pine kitchen table, and then she spent the night.

 

Not like that.

 

Not like that for a fucking long time. Still not like that, and they’re fine with it. Not yet. Sex is sex, and love is love, and sometimes sex and love can work, and sometimes there needs to be a hells of a lot of thought to get to that stage when everything adds up into this thing called a relationship.

 

Too much shit under the bridge for either of them just to leap into things like Willas and Oberyn, or instantly fall into this perfection of love that stories and films always think is a perfect ever after. Sandor hurts, and angers, and he wakes at three in the morning remembering fire on his skin and battling a myriad of destructive thoughts that used to drive him to questionable choices. Sometimes they still do. It’s a healing process, one that, yeah, it’s better when Sansa’s there because she understands. She gets it, like Beric does.

 

It’s fucked up that the woman he loves and his best friend are both trauma survivors, and he is himself, and maybe that’s why they’re drawn together? Perhaps that’s why Sansa Stark inveigled her way into his head the moment Sandor saw her so many months before?

 

His arm wraps about her waist, tugs lightly, and then he has a lapful of Sansa who tastes of lemon cake and treacle, and nuzzles into his scars with her nose.

 

“Look at Pod’s face.” Sansa’s friend - not Sandor’s, he’s too insular to really open up with people - lights the room with his sheer good nature. He’s whirled about by everyone after Yara says his name, the screaming almost deafening, before Margaery pushes through them, her face strangely serene and glowing, pulling him into a great soft hug that ends in her pecking him lightly upon his even more surprised mouth.

 

“Number one reason why Willas hasn’t been fucked over by the Tyrell Mafia,” Sandor deadpans, stroking her hair as Sansa makes herself comfortable.

 

“Pod’s still terrified of her,” she murmurs. She’s limp and noodled like this, eyes half closed and her entire body relaxing into his. “Apparently she’s very fierce, but he likes that. He likes being given direction.”

 

“He likes having Hot Pie’s job, y’mean.” Pod’s smiling face graces billboards now, and television channels, and he’s apparently the bright new future of Westerosi baking. Having a Tyrell girlfriend brings certain privileges, and when Varys whisked Hot Pie away for a half-year long ‘I’m sorry that I’m a manwhore and I will promise to keep my cock to ourselves from now on, and I’ll do anything to ensure you’re not going to leave me because, despite all of my best efforts, I actually do seem to have this thing called a heart when it comes to certain pleasingly plump pastry chefs’ holiday, then Olenna pushed buttons and made threats. Blackmail becomes her.

 

But still. Fucking Hot Pie.

 

Sandor still clenches at the fat fucker’s name. Even though that fat fucker went and bloody well saved every cunting bastard thing in their little baking world. Being in debt to a sworn enemy proves agonising, and annoying, and needling. Hot Pie is a devious little cocksucker, and even though Sandor loathes everything that the obese wanker stands for, his little ultimatum means that at least they still have _ Bake Off  _ on the  _ WBC _ for at least the next three years.

 

Apparently, according to the Gospel of Hot Pie, nothing proves love more than turning down a multi-million dragon deal and endless power for the baker that you love. Varys agreed to step it back, dropped Mance Rayder like a hot scone, and they’re buggering their way across Yi-Ti where technically they’re still illegal but in reality welcomed with open arms.

 

Even fucking Yi-Ti loves frigging Hot Bastard Pie. Shitlords.

 

The moment the programme finishes, the phone rings. Bonnie Tyler’s seminal ‘80s hit ‘ _ I Need A Hero _ ’ blares out, makes Stranger whimper in his sleep, and Sandor fishes around blindly for his handset.

 

“Bitch.” Such is the greeting.

 

“Fucking hells, Ramsay. Fucking piss off. Where’s Beric?”

 

Unfortunately, he’s had to adapt to sharing Dondarrion with five foot seven of malevolence.

 

“Tied up-”

 

“Don’t. Want to-”

 

“Ramsay?” comes a very faint and tinny voice, before a minor scuffle occurs complete with swearing, someone snarling, and the familiar softness of Beric’s laughter.

 

“Sorry about that, mate. He just wanted to phone and congratulate you on another successful series. Ramsay. Put that down.” Beric pauses. “No. Tasers are not toys.”

 

“What the actual fuck?” This occurs more often than not during these phone calls, but never ceases to amaze.

 

“He took it off one of the gang leaders. Word is now properly out in Braavos not to mess with me and the crew, because I have a very terrifying bodyguard. They call him Death Chihuahua, apparently. He’s now trying to get the phone off me, but since he’s so short, he’s trying to actively climb. Look, I’ll let you get back to it, and I’ll control him more appropriately. We’ll ring you next week, okay? You take care of yourselves, and all my love to Sansa. You are eating enough, aren’t you? Is there anything you need? Give Stranger a pat from both of us. Ramsay. What did I tell you about that machete? Not inside, because the hotel budget doesn’t stretch you to trashing the room, does it? Why don’t you go and shoot people on your computer?”

 

“Uh. Yeah. Regards to Dacey and Bronn, yeah?” Talking with Beric ends up an uncomfortable three-way conversation half the time, unless Sandor catches them on set, because then Ramsay’s channeling his immense evil into weirding out the Braavosi Yahoos and the other various gangs that Beric’s filming a series about. Hot Pie wrangled that, as well. Fucker.

 

“Love you, Sandor.” He means it. Always does, always will. Contrary to everything - fucked up boyfriend and fucked up subject matter included - Beric sounds. Shit. Sounds happy. Happier than he has for years. While his choices aren’t approved, and the flame of jealousy burns ironically bright given that they’re both now involved with others, Beric deserves to be content.

 

“You too, mate.”

 

He hangs up to Sansa smiling against his hair, tucked so very tight. In public they are more reticent, almost formal apart from the odd occasion when he cannot help himself reaching out, still unsure if the woman at his side is real. They’ve lived together for a whole month, and yet Sandor can’t quite believe, still, that he’s so fucking lucky. Sometimes if he doesn’t stop himself he follows her about the rambling house like a dog, just needing to be in her presence. As if, and he mocks himself for this too, if Sansa steps outside of his sight for a moment, she’ll just disappear.

 

He’s training himself towards not being so needy, because that’s just set to cause a tonne of issues, but they’re both learning. There’s a lot to learn for a man hurt by the world in general, and a woman who men have half-destroyed. Sometimes it grows too much, and Sansa becomes distant, or Sandor irritable and snappish, but they work through together because they’re adults. Fucking adults, who love each other, despite of, or even because of, their issues.

 

“Sandor?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

She runs her fingertips lightly across his cheek, over the flat slick and raised welt of scar tissue, caresses his mouth, his jaw, tucks her hands into his long dark hair.

 

“Do you fancy?” and she leans in, all vanilla and buttercream, mouth at his ear ripe with promise, “helping me make a lemon cake?”

 

Baking is love. Baking is life. Sansa is baking.

 

He nods, takes her hands as she beckons him, and they go and do what they love, with the person they love, for no one else in the world but themselves.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading - I appreciate every one of you massively.


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